


It Comes Naturally

by sinuous_curve



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, Queer Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cool Thursday in early September, Watson descended the wide stairs of 221 Baker Street, still yawning away the last of a fitful night's sleep, and found her friend and partner, Sherlock Holmes, sitting at the breakfast table and intently reading a letter. The missive was several pages worth of cramped, dense handwriting and was already spattered lightly with what, at a cursory glance, appeared to be tea.</p><p>Watson is a woman who has chosen to disguise her sex and live as a gentleman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Comes Naturally

**Author's Note:**

> Includes descriptions of a brawl and a resulting injury.
> 
> Written for the holmes_big_bang challenge on LJ. Thanks to okubyo_kitsune for the beta and frankkinsense for britpicking. Thanks especially to lyo for being there at every step of this story, for much needed judicious advice at several key points, and for making this a much better work than it would have been otherwise.

On a cool Thursday in early September, Watson descended the wide stairs of 221 Baker Street, still yawning away the last of a fitful night's sleep, and found her friend and partner, Sherlock Holmes, sitting at the breakfast table and intently reading a letter. The missive was several pages worth of cramped, dense handwriting and was already spattered lightly with what, at a cursory glance, appeared to be tea.

Holmes's brow was furrowed in the customary expression of deep concentration he wore whenever something had managed to capture the whole of his impressive attention. Watson was well attuned to the vagaries of Holmes's many moods and attitudes and new immediately that any attempt at conversation was futile in the extreme. So she took her seat across from Holmes and began to fork sausages onto her plate with no more than a perfunctory, "Good morning." She knew that eventually Holmes would turn his attentions to her and offer an explanation.

Watson had endured a poor night of sleep due to both the deepening chill of coming autumn working insidious fingers into her old war wounds and the cramps through her lower belly and back that always accompanied the end of her menses. She gratefully accepted fresh toast from Mrs. Hudson and smeared a liberal amount of jam and butter over two pieces while Holmes continued his furious perusal of his letter.

Pouring tea, Watson glanced at the discarded envelope the letter had arrived in. The handwriting was indeed nearly unreasonably small. The postmark listed only the initials P.D.C and the name of an estate that tickled insistently on the very edges of Watson's memory. A moment of thought on the subject of Brandywine Manor intensified the sense of recognition, but stubbornly refused to produce any concrete thoughts.

She brushed the matter of the manor aside. She speculated that Holmes' lengthy missive was likely from a potential employer with a tendency toward being long-winded. A small failing, granted, but one that Holmes held little patience with in others. Likely the author thought that pages of flattering words would help in begging for the illustrious services of the famous Mister Sherlock Holmes.

In companionable silence, Watson ate Mrs. Hudson's excellent breakfast, saving the charred pieces of bacon to slip to Gladstone beneath the table. Holmes read on, occasionally turning to a new page with an ever-deepening expression of concentration written on his handsome features.

It amused Watson, in a slightly cynical way, to realize that not so very long ago, such a morning greeting would have either caused offense at such dismissive treatment or worried her greatly that she had caused offense to the man she shared lodgings with. Of course, not terribly long ago she had been a drunken, gambling shell of broken soldier, quite neatly planning on welcoming death at the first opportunity.

She had been suffering quite badly then, from the wounds on her body and mind. It was hardly an easy thing to first endure a terrible war, then be discovered as a woman beneath her uniform. London proved to be an unwelcoming home and, despite all the promises she'd made herself, Watson had soon returned to disguising the truth of her sex beneath more comfortable wrappings.

But that was thankfully history placed neatly in the past where it belonged and she now sat at Sherlock Holmes's breakfast table, eating sausages and toast, and wondering what shape their next adventure might take.

Watson was pouring herself a second cup of tea when Holmes finally tossed down the letter with a familiar fervent gleam in his eyes. "Watson, are you amenable to taking up the investigation of a supernatural matter?"

"Supernatural?" Watson raised her brows. "My dear friend, I was under the impression that you had little patience for such cases."

"I have little patience for cases which offer no mental exercise," Holmes corrected. He picked the letter up once again and neatly refolded it along the existing creases. Deftly, he tucked the pages into the envelope and sat the entire package next to his plate. "However, it is entirely possible that this particular ghost owes its existence to a logical explanation and I admit to being somewhat intrigued. May I count upon your assistance?"

Watson raised her cup. "As always, Holmes."

By mid-afternoon they were on the train to the nearest station to Brandywine Manor, sitting across from each other in the compartment while the lovely greenery of the countryside slipped past. Holmes had declined to elucidate further on the case waiting for them at their destination, but Watson was capable of making a few deductions of her own. Once one came to understand Holmes's habits, he was not nearly as erratic as a first impression might suggest.

By undertaking a journey of considerable length rather than having the client come to Baker street, Watson could deduce that the case likely bore some connection to the location, rather than merely the people. And, of course, on a far less altruistic note, it was either very exceptionally interesting or potentially quite lucrative. Holmes' fortune had not tended to grow with his fame, due largely to the expense incurred by his particular vices. Much as he detested taking a case simply for the money involved, in moments of particular monetary lack, he tended toward the maxim that pride cometh before the fall. Or, before being evicted, as the case may be.

Watson tapped her thumb against her elbow and considered the man sitting before her, nearly close enough for their knees to touch.

Holmes sat with one arm folded across his chest and the other propped up for his chin to rest against. He stared out the window with a singular concentration that the passing flora could warrant to no one but a botanist. To Watson's experience, Holmes's knowledge and interest in botany extended only to poisons and natural anesthetics, not rapturous appreciation of England's plants.

It was difficult to tell whether he was simply terribly engrossed in his thoughts of their impending case or so bored that he'd had no choice but to turn to whatever puzzles occupied his expansive mind in times of calm.

"Holmes," Watson said, touching him lightly on the knee.

Holmes eyes flicked from the window to Watson. She met his gaze, conscious to hide the small, affectionate smile that threatened to play across her lips. He friend was not a man who took well to any preciousness; he would not see the same endearing thread in his habits that she had come to appreciate. "Yes, Watson?"

"Might you be willing to explain about this case?" Watson asked lightly.

In their years of first friendship and then partnership, Watson had never known Holmes to entirely forget something. Rather, he merely misplaced thoughts for a moment or forgot that he was the only one privy to the tangled webs of thought that branched out in his mind.

"Ah, yes." Holmes straightened in his seat and adopted a pose that never ceased to remind Watson of her lecturers at university when they were preparing to embark on a long tangent about their most beloved subject. "Have you ever heard of Lord Peter Cox?"

"No, I don't believe so."

Holmes smiled. "He's the son of Adam Cox."

"Well, then," Watson said, "Indeed I have heard of him."

In his day, Adam Cox had styled himself as a kind of gentleman rogue. In possession of both impeccable manners and decent breeding, he found that the sedate country lifestyle his family's lands could provide was hardly worth the trouble of getting out of bed each morning and decided, as a young man, that criminal enterprises were both more lucrative and exciting.

For much of his youth, his breeding provided most of the scant cover he needed. Watson's memories of the newspaper coverage had been of overt condemnation that never seemed quite sincere. Adam Cox was a very handsome man, and charming. The greatest scandal of his life had been marriage to a destitute daughter of former nobility who gave birth to their son a scant six months after the wedding. Adam Cox was a rake of the romantic sort, however, and very difficult to dismiss as a mere criminal.

"The man was never caught and never charged with anything," Holmes continued. "In his old age, he retired to his country estate and left the running of his enterprise to other men. Most assumed his son was next in line, but apparently Peter Cox was born with a rather unfortunate streak of morals and abjured his father's business."

Watson nodded her understanding, but also pulled her mouth into a slight frown. "That's all very lurid, Holmes, but I'm afraid I don't see the case. As I recall, it was never for lack of evidence that the elder Cox was kept from jail. What does his son want with you?"

"Ah," Holmes said with a smile. "That is the intriguing part, my dear Watson. The younger Cox claims that the ghost of his father has come back to haunt him."

Blinking, Watson raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Has he really?"

"So Lord Cox claims," Holmes replied, leaning back in his seat. "For the past several weeks, he's been plagued with strange occurrences. While they were limited to banging noises and scratches at the windowpanes, he was willing to overlook them as either the sounds of an old house, figments of his imagination, or practical jokes. However, the 'ghost' has escalated his activities to rather more violent pursuits. First a maid was shoved while carrying hot soup. Then Lord Cox himself was pushed down the stairs."

"My God. Is he all right?"

Holmes shrugged slightly. "Not wounded, but very near to panicked. He's saying that if the 'ghost' cannot be quieted, he'll soon be forced to leave the house to preserve his sanity. And since he lacks the ill-gotten resources of his father, it's not a move he can easily afford."

"I see," Watson said. "And, purely for the sake of clarification, are we intended to put the ghost of his father to rest or to discover who wants Lord Cox to believe the ghost of his father is haunting him?"

"That, old boy, depends entirely upon your perspective."

The man who met them at the train station was slight of build and handsome enough, by Watson's estimation, though his face had a thinness to it that spoke of a quiet nature. Thick, light brown hair neatly brushed the tops of his shoulders and his face was clean shaved and younger than she'd expected. His clothing, too, was clean and well fitted, but hardly extravagant. He did not look the son of an outlaw lord. He looked like a moderately comfortable barrister.

"Mr. Holmes," he said, gratefully taking Holmes's hand as they stepped off the train. "I'm so very pleased you could come. I sincerely hope you'll be able to help me."

"My pleasure, of course," Holmes said with a small smile. He gestured to Watson. "And this is Doctor Watson, my friend and occasional colleague, when he is good enough to indulge me. I thought his insight might serve this particular matter. I trust you don't mind."

Cox shook his head and grasped Watson's hand. His grip was firmer than she'd expected and Watson mentally raised her estimation of his character a few notches. "Not at all. Thank you for coming, Doctor."

"Of course." Watson offered him the reassuring grin years of doctoring sick men and women had perfected and, to her great gratification, the expression of tense worry on Cox's face lifted slightly.

"This way gentlemen, if you'll follow me."

It was no more than twenty or thirty minutes from the train station to Brandywine Manor. The grounds were spacious and very green, though they did have a slightly unkempt look about them. Watson remembered Holmes's comment about Cox having forsaken the more luxurious life of his father and chosen to return to his more humble roots. She wondered just how much humbler those roots had proven to be.

As they drove, Cox spoke about the history of the grounds. His voice was pleasant and his knowledge a touch more vast than Watson would have expected. She did note that he avoided any mention of his father's criminal activities, which had undoubtedly made their way home from time to time.

The house itself was very handsome. The walls were made of dark stone with creeping ivy covering a good three fourths of their surface. To Watson's mind, it resembled the castle of a poor king in a fairy story and she liked it immediately. Holmes barely seemed to register an awareness of their surroundings for how engrossed he was in Cox's meandering histories, but Watson knew better than to foolishly assume he wasn't paying keen attention.

A woman was waiting in front of the main door when they arrived. Immediately, Watson assumed her to be Cox's wife. She was small by every conceivable usage of the word; short and delicately boned with a nest of dark curls coiled loosely at the nape of her neck. She shaded her eyes from the late afternoon sun with one hand and looked at them with reservation quite plain on her face.

Cox climbed down from the cart and took her free hand. "Ems, this is Mister Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Gentlemen, this is my wife, Emily."

"Hello." Emily's eyes, Watson could not help but note, were a green to rival any others Watson had ever lain her eyes on. Emily Cox was not beautiful as Watson had been taught beauty should be, but her face was striking and she suspected that, much like her husband, an unassuming exterior belied the lady's strength. "We do appreciate your coming all the way to our doorstep."

"But of course, Madame," Holmes said, sweeping a slight bow. He turned back to Cox and Watson winced slightly at the obvious dismissal of his wife. "Now, if you would be so kind as to show us around the house, particularly where the incidents took place."

Cox murmured something to his wife and she nodded, offering no farewell before taking off across the lawn with purpose in her stride. Watson's eyes lingered on her small, resolute form for a moment longer than strictly necessary. She only turned to hastily chase after Holmes and Cox when Holmes asked wryly if she was indeed coming.

The house was typical of less well-off nobility that Watson had seen. The furnishings were rich, of course, but growing threadbare in many places and covered in a thin, dusty veneer of crumbling age. Much of it walked the very fine line of good taste and rather too often fell to the questionable, if not purely gaudy, side. She suspected they hadn't been replaced in the ten years the former patriarch had been dead.

Cox showed them the kitchen where the maid had been toppled and injured. All evidence of the mishap had been cleared away, of course, but Watson did note the uneven stones of the floor, quite perfect for tripping. "She's fine, thank God," Cox explained. "Burns on her arms and chest, but they'll heal."

That he cared at all spoke well of him. Watson was hardly one to avow the strength of upbringing over character, but she did know the force of will it took to defy what your father taught you to be true.

"And she swears she did not simply trip?" Holmes asked.

Cox shook his head. "She swears. Annie was born in this house and has worked here from the time she was a girl. She's walked from the stove to the dining room table a hundred thousand times or more and she's never tripped."

Holmes made a noise in the back of his throat and Watson narrowed her eyes, observing his face as surreptitiously as he could. She had a sense that a clue had revealed itself to her friend, but she would have to wait until they were alone to ask any questions.

Through the dining room, they emerged back into the main through-way of the house and Cox showed them a wide, elegant staircase that led to the second floor. "I was at the top," Cox explained, hesitating on the first step with one hand wrapped tightly around the banister. "I'm sure I was alone in the house, except for Emily. One moment I was standing at the top of the stairs, the next I was falling. It's only luck that I didn't break my neck."

Holmes brushed past Cox, taking the stairs two at a time until he had reached the top and stood looking down upon them like a king taking in his loyal subjects. Watson leaned against the banister, seeking to ease the ache in her leg. Half an hour in the cramped, jolting cart driven in Cox's somewhat inexpert hands had done her bones no favors.

"You're certain you were alone?" Holmes asked distractedly, drumming his fingers against the carved wooden head at the top of the railing. The gloom made it difficult to be certain, but Watson thought it was in the shape of a very aggressively roaring lion.

Cox took a pair of steps up, frowning slightly. "Yes, I'm certain. The staff here is very small. Just Annie, the gardener, and the butler. Their quarters are on the other side of the main house and Emily dismisses them every night before she goes to bed."

Holmes narrowed his gaze on Cox. "And, of course, I must ask. Are _you_ certain that you didn't merely lose your footing? I find that very often a simple explanation is a correct explanation."

"I am quite certain." Cox drew himself up to his full height. Admittedly, that merely put him on par with Watson, but she appreciated the sentiment behind the gesture. She realized that Cox was, undoubtedly, used to comparisons being drawn between himself and his late father and being found wanting.

"Quite right." Holmes raised an eyebrow and met Watson's glance over Cox's shoulder. She smiled slightly at him.

"So," Cox said, returning to the main floor with his hands balled into unconscious fists. Watson cocked her head at that, reconsidering the gravity of the situation. She had assumed the Coxes to be merely inconvenienced by their ghost; she had not anticipated evidence of real fear. "How shall we begin?"

Holmes continued his survey of the house, tapping his fingers against the banister in a rhythm that Watson identified as the melody of one of his stranger violin compositions. A certain wariness crept into Cox's expression, an emotion with which Watson could easily sympathize. Holmes's methods were undeniably strange to the uninitiated.

"I would prefer to begin by speaking to your staff," Holmes said, steepling his fingers. "I find that staff often notice things their masters have not. And since these incidents have affected them as well, it seems particularly prudent."

Cox nodded, nearly enthusiastically. "Of course."

Directly, the three of them made their way to the kitchen and the young maid who first suffered injury at the hands of the 'ghost.' Annie proved to be a young woman of average height and pretty features, with middling brown hair pulled away from her face in an imminently practical braid. The only sign of her injury was a reddish patch of skin curling up from the collar of her dress, now faded to pink.

"It were the strangest thing," Annie said at Cox's request, elbows deep in soapy water as she cleaned up from breakfast. "I've walked that way a thousand times, to be sure. And that night I was doing as I always did and then I was falling. It's a near miracle I didn't break my neck."

"Was there anything else peculiar about that night?" Holmes asked.

Annie frowned slightly at the question and pulled her hands from the water. She wiped away the clinging suds on a rag and folded her arms over her chest. "Well, I shouldn't know for sure if it would really be odd, sir, but I did have a queer feeling that night."

"Queer?" Watson prompted. She very often had cause to wish, as a doctor, that her patients knew the same medical terminology for sensation that she did. Queer could mean so very many things.

"Yeah, queer." Annie shrugged. "A bit off, if you take my meaning. Like the floor was moving a bit with every step."

Time had attuned Watson very much to the subtle vagaries of Holmes's moods, but also his reactions and the littlest quirks. She thought often that she was one of the few people in the world who could truthfully lay such a claim and she was proud of that. She saw Holmes's eyes flicker at Annie's words.

They left Annie beginning preparations for dinner and continued to the butler's pantry.

The butler was a man that Watson estimated was at least sixty years of age, if not more. She guessed he would have once stood well over six feet, but the years had left him slightly stooped and wizened. Watson was reminded of nothing so much as an aging tree. Tufts of graying hair protruded from either side of his head in an effect that would have been comical were he not such an utterly dignified character.

His name was Thompson and, according to Cox, he'd first come to work for the family before Cox's birth. Watson wondered sharply whether Thompson had been a man of particular loyalty to his former employer and, if he had, whether he shared the commonly poor opinion of his new master.

"Have you experienced any of these strange events?" Holmes asked directly.

Thompson continued at his tasks as he spoke. "Not as such. I have merely heard the noises."

Holmes's faced washed over with irritation and Watson was hard-pressed to tamp down a slight smile. Holmes had little patience for such avoidance. "What noises have you heard?"

"Strange thumping," Thompson said circumspectly. "Things scratching at the windows where there are no tree branches. Creaking. Of course, these noises are all fairly normal for this house, but the ones I noticed were much louder than is normal. More frequent, as well."

Watson glanced at Cox and was unsurprised to find his mouth twisted into an unhappy smile. She imagined it could be no easy thing to know that a man living in your house did not believe you. Though, of course, Watson could not help but note the irony that she was also sleeping in Cox's house and did not believe that his problem lay in spirits.

Holmes thanked the man, just as Annie came to fetch Cox, saying that his wife had need of him.

"Just one moment, gentleman," Cox apologized. "I will return shortly. If you would wait in the parlor, I would be most appreciative."

The parlor was much like the rest of the house. Rich furnishing that had not been treated particularly well by time, though they were still kept spotlessly clean. Watson noticed worn patches on the rug and the furniture and the curtains looked slightly tattered at the edges. She wondered if it was solely the responsibility of Annie to keep the entire house clean, or if Thompson helped in her duties.

As a child, Watson had grown up in house strikingly similar to the Cox's manse. It was smaller, of course, and of an infinitely less noble lineage. But she did remember it having the same sense of struggling toward true affluence and never quite managing to attain it. Watson sat herself in a chair and absently ran the tip of her finger over a soft spot in the upholstery.

Of course, as a child she'd had many other things to rail against in the grand scheme of unfairness than simple unfashionable furnishing. She'd spent her days sneaking out of the house in stolen pairs of his father's discarded trousers with the legs rolled up half a dozen times. Watson recalled tromping around the outdoors in stolen hours of freedom until someone located her and returned her to the house for a thorough scolding and, if she was particularly unlucky, a tearful lecture from her mother about being a lady.

Watson rather suspected that if her mother saw her now, she would likely expire from shock and shame. Though her father, if he could be convinced to not backhand her into oblivious, might be brought around to the idea of having a son, if only in a partial sense.

"Watson?"

"Hm. Yes?" Watson shook her head and dislodged the ridiculous reminisces. She had not returned home or seen any member of her family since she left at seventeen, fittingly dressed in a suit stolen from her father that was rather too long in the limbs and to loose in the waist. She had looked back many times since then, but never considered returning.

"You seem somewhat distracted, my dear doctor," Holmes noted.

He was pacing a path in front of the fireplace with his hands locked behind his back. His shoes shushed quietly against the rug and his coat flared very dramatically at each turn. He bore a slight resemblance to some kind of gentleman wizard and Watson smiled to herself at the thought. If anyone in her life were capable of magic, it would of course be Holmes.

"Forgive me," Watson apologized. "Have you yet solved this case?"

Holmes made a dismissive noise in his throat and continued his quick, repetitive path. "Not quite, Watson. At present, I am still formulating theories. However, with incomplete data I cannot begin to make accurate assessments."

"Of course." Watson shifted in her chair and found a more comfortable position. He knew well the futility of attempting to worm information from Holmes he was not willing to share.

Watson watched the clock as Holmes paced. Nearly seven minutes passed before Cox blustered back into the parlor. He apologized profusely for his absence, offering the explanation that Emily had uncovered a discrepancy in the household accounts and required an explanation from her tragically forgetful husband.

"Because of. Because of the past, we are particularly strident with our finances," Cox explained.

Holmes immediately snapped his gaze to Cox and became once more the Consulting Detective of Baker Street.

Watson pushed herself up from the armchair and purposefully turned her mind back to the case at hand, the ghost of Peter Cox and such. She would not allow her mind to continually wander back to thoughts of her house and family. In that particular regard, choices had long since been made and Watson had found peace with their consequences. If her mind continued to be uncooperative, she would simply redouble her own efforts. Besides, Holmes had often enough admonished Watson to exercise her own faculties and deductive skills.

"All that's left is Reginald, the gardener," Cox explained. "He also does the tasks of a groom and hostler when the need arises. He's a distant uncle or cousin of Annie's or somesuch. Annie's mother, who had the position before Annie did, until she passed, was a second cousin of his, I believe. She found the placement through him."

Cox led them through the bowels of the house, out a side door connected to the kitchen, and onto a wide green lawn that sloped away gently from the house to an aging fence and a bit of forest beyond. The stables sat several dozen yards off to the right, hunched low against the ground and made of weathered gray stone with a darker slate roof. It had a stalwart appearance, as though it had endured a hundred winters and was perfectly capable of enduring many more.

Watson managed to keep pace with Cox and Holmes as they walked across the lawn, despite her limp and general distaste for earthy terrain. Halfway down the slope to the stables, a craggy man rounded the stone corner and adopted a planted stance with his hands firmly on his hips. Cox raised his hand in a friendly wave; the man nodded in acknowledgment and waited. He reminded Watson of a dog with his hackles raised at a dangerous scent.

"Reg, this is Mister Sherlock Holmes and his esteemed colleague, Doctor John Watson. Gentlemen, this is Reginald Baker, our longtime gardener."

Upon closer inspection, Reg the gardener and occasional groom and hostler, turned out to be as weather-beaten as the stables that were his sole domain. Lines branched across his face in many thousands of directions; they sprayed from the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth, sitting on his skin in a light web. In the midst of those carved marks sat faded brown eyes and thin lips drawn into a perpetual frown.

"Mister Baker," Holmes said circumspectly. "Have _you_ experienced any of these strange occurrences?"

Reg's face remained as immovable as something carved from the solid bones of the very earth. "Can't say as I have, but then I don't have much reason to be up and about at the big house most days. Seems the wee ghosty ain't got much reason to be about the stables."

"Of course," Holmes said, very nearly amiably. "Thank you very much."

Holmes had always had a tendency toward directness; it was one of the reasons he was so prone to ruffle feathers in his dealings with other people. Regardless, Watson was still somewhat taken aback by the imminent briskness of his tone. Cox as well blinked in a most surprised fashion, then politely thanked Reg and began the walk back toward the house. He tucked his hands in his pockets and kept his face tilted toward the afternoon sky.

Watson followed a step behind and Holmes joined in her stride, satisfaction written plainly on his features. "I believe a return to London is in order, Watson," he said around the same grin. "And, with any luck, it should be little more than another day and night before we might have our answer."

Adam Cox was understandably taken aback at Holmes's announcement of their return to Baker Street, but seemed moderately comforted by Holmes's explanation that he had need to make inquiries that could not be made at Brandywine.

"Is there anything I might do to help your investigation?" Cox asked at the train station, hands tucked neatly into his pocket. Steam already billowed from the engine in a white plume and the conductor was ushering people into the cars.

"Take note of anything that happens tonight," Holmes instructed. "We will return tomorrow, if all goes well, and the day after if all does not. Be aware, of course, and tell your wife and servants to do the same."

Cox nodded his understanding as the conductor bellowed, "All aboard!"

Watson and Holmes rushed to their compartment and took the same seats as on the journey to Brandywine Manor. Holmes even sank back into his previous position of deep contemplation with his eyes trained on the view outside the window.

Watson waited until several minutes had passed and the station faded out of view. A young woman passed by with a young child in her arms and another boldly leading the way with all the confidence a six year old could muster. She shared a smile with the woman and, when they had passed, turned to Holmes. "Holmes?"

"Yes, Doctor?" He only reluctantly turned his gaze to her.

"I am well aware that you have likely divined the truth of our mysterious ghost," Watson said lightly, "Do you care to share with us mortals?"

Holmes's mouth thinned into a smile as he settled back in his seat. "You have been the occasional defender of the possibility of the supernatural, Watson. Perhaps I have come to the conclusion that Lord Cox is indeed the victim of a haunting and would be better served by a priest than a consulting detective."

"I was speaking in the theoretical," Watson countered. "And you do not believe in the supernatural."

"Right." Holmes threaded his fingers through the dark mop of his hair. "In that case, Watson. I do not, in fact, believe that the ghost of the dearly departed Adam Cox is haunting his son. Nor do I believe it is any other spirit, for that matter."

"So, it's simple coincidence, then?" Watson asked.

Holmes shook his head slowly. "No, I do not believe that either. I do, as a point of fact, believe that something odd is happening in that house. It's merely a matter now of trying to discern who would have any interest in making Peter Cox believe his home to be haunted. What ends does such a thing serve?"

"He's considering leaving?"

"True, but in such an instance, he had no plans to sell the place. And there is, to our knowledge, nothing of particular value to be stolen." Holmes taped a finger against his bottom lip.

Watson began to rub absently at her aching thigh. "Well, perhaps this mysterious persons simply wants to drive him mad."

"It is a possibility," Holmes said cagily. "I believe there is more to be discovered before any conclusions can be drawn."

Watson had the deep sense that Holmes wasn't telling her the entire truth, but she found the exhaustion ran too deep for a drawn out battle of wits with Holmes to be appealing. "Fine then, Holmes. Keep your thoughts to yourself."

Holmes chuckled softy, but said no more. And that told Watson quite clearly that there were aspects to this particularly case that had yet to reveal themselves to his satisfaction. She wondered, perhaps, if the solution she expected to be quite simple would rather prove to be anything but.

By the time they arrived in London, a cool dusk had fallen, replete with the promise of coming rain. Watson hurried to hail a cab and in short order they were returned to Baker Street, huddled against a thin mist. Mrs. Hudson had already retired for the evening, but the good woman had left red embers glowing faintly in the parlor grate. Not for the first time, Watson took note of how deeply indebted the both of them were to their landlady.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Watson yawned deeply and arched her back to the reward of several imminently satisfying pops. The hours sitting on the train and in the rattling back of Cox's claptrap cart had wound a deep stiffness around her hip, up her spine, and into her shoulder. The ache was not yet so abominable that morphine's blissful oblivion became an unbearable siren's call, but it was hardly pleasant, nonetheless.

"I believe I am done for, old boy," Watson said. "My bed has rarely sounded so enticing."

Holmes moved to stand beside the fireplace. "Good night, Doctor." His lean form cut a dramatic figure in the dull, reddish glow. Watson smiled softly to herself and wondered whether her friend was even aware of how dramatically he posed himself. The patrons of the stage must spend their nights weeping for the excellent player fate had deprived them of.

"Good night, Holmes," Watson intoned and left her friend to his thoughts.

In the familiar privacy of her own room, Watson carefully and methodically undressed, leaving her clothing in a neatly folded pile. She released the bindings around her breasts with a deep exhalation. The ache circling her ribs was such a constant companion, she could hardly imagine what a day without it would feel like. She half suspected that rather than freed, it would be a sense of deep nakedness.

On accident, she caught sight of her bare body in the little mirror that hung on the wall. Customarily, she took some pains to keep her eyes away from reflections of her bare skin. Not out of loathing, precisely, but rather for discomfort from the conundrum it presented. She carried the breasts and hips of a woman, but was no lady, and the scars and carriage of a gentleman, but she was no man.

She had long since found peace with the contradiction between her form and her life, if only because the other option was a life of misery. To her knowledge, she was an aberration, even if some instinct insisted that there were very, very few people in the world who were truly singularly unique.

But it was all fancy and she shook her head, donning her night clothes and sliding beneath the blankets. Quickly, she slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Watson found Holmes absent from the breakfast table. Such an occurrence was noteworthy, of course, but hardly cause for any undue alarm. Sherlock Holmes was a gentleman of impeccable manners, but only when the mood struck him and he put forth a conscious effort to employ them. Elsewise, he was a man of variable moods and precocious whim.

Watson finished her breakfast alone and spent the rest of her morning at her writing desk, dealing with some badly neglected correspondence from some of her more nervous clients. When she had dispatched those missives, she gladly turned her attention to her latest manuscript detailing Holmes's exploits as world famous consulting detective. The work was both soothing and entertaining and she quickly lost herself.

The day itself was conducive to writing. Outside her window the sky was a flat, heavy iron color. The occasional burst of rain spattered against the glass panes in rattling gusts. The wind whistled mournfully at times, threatening a true deluge. After some time, Gladstone lumbered into the room and took up residence curled around her feet, snoring softly.

She passed several lazy hours in such a way, only idly and occasionally wondering where and what on earth Holmes had devised for his afternoon's occupation. She sincerely hoped it had some bearing on the Cox matter; it was not beyond Holmes to pick up the threads of another case before completely untangling the threads of a first.

Just before two o' clock, Watson was startled out of her reverie by several loud thumps that sounded quite like the front door being violently flung open and slammed shut. Watson, suspecting it could be nothing but her erstwhile friend triumphantly returned, prudently put down her pen and returned her papers safely to their proper places. In the time it took for her to do so, the thumping has begun to proceed up the stairs and Holmes spilled into the room a moment later. He face was flushed red with both with cold and clear excitement

"Holmes!" Watson cried, taking in his full view. "What on Earth have you been doing? You look as though someone dropped you into the Thames."

Holmes was dressed in the ragged garb of a poor dock worker at the end of an unbelievable run of bad luck. A large, absurd hat pulled down low obscured the greater proportion of his features and every item of clothing was so much covered in filth as to be good for little but the stove. Furthermore, he was soaked with rain to the skin and standing in a quickly growing puddle.

Where it not for the enthusiasm plain upon his face, he would have seemed the most wretched and pitiable man in London.

"Fortunately, no. It is merely the side effects of the weather," Holmes said, removing his hat and fixing his eyes on Watson. "Now, my dear Doctor, have you ever had any interest in a career as a lowly thug for hire?"

Watson arched her brow. Gladstone, finally mindful of the commotion, hauled himself ponderously to his feet and waddled over to Holmes. He began to lick up the water collecting around Holmes's shoes.

"I cannot say that I have."

"Ah." Holmes broke into a wide smile and clasped his hands behind his back. "I will have need of you to play such a part this evening, Watson. You will merely be required to hover menacingly, however. You are an abominable liar, Watson but your presence will do nicely."

Watson sat her elbows on the armrests of her chair and calmly appraised her friend. There was little doubt in her mind that she would cheerfully acquiesce to the unusual demands of Holmes's plans. Of course, her curiosity still abounded.

"And why, pray tell, am I to act the part of a menacing, lowly thug?"

"Because tonight we are going to pay a visit to one of dearly departed Adam Cox's old associates. I have spent this morning making discreet enquiries among the petty criminals in an attempt to better discern the Old Cox's web of partners. I believe I have found means to speak to his main man."

Watson's interest was naturally piqued. She lacked Holmes's ability to move with seamless ease between all people and the prospect of descending into the lower circles of crime and depravity was both shocking and enticing. "What do you suppose this associate will tell us? And who _is_ he?"

"All in good time," Holmes said over his shoulder, as he was already on his way out the door.

"Very well then," Watson sighed, reaching down to scratch Gladstone between the ears. "All in good time. If he gets me killed, Gladstone, you have my permission to bite him."

That evening they shared a light supper while Mrs. Hudson grumbled ominously about the dire fates that awaited men who foolishly sought out danger. Watson was half inclined to voice his agreement with her, had Holmes not been so obviously engrossed in his own thoughts. Outside, the weather had subsided into a cold, damp night that would sink heavily into the bones. Watson grimaced in annoyance.

Upon finishing their meal, Watson and Holmes retreated into their rooms to prepare for the evening's excursions. Watson donned her oldest pair of disreputable trousers and a shirt wearing thin in several places. She made certain to adjust the linen wrappings binding her breasts down. It would not due for them to slither loose at a delicate and inopportune moment.

On top she shrugged on a weathered coat a size too large, which allowed for better concealment of her pistol, and a grimy bowler hat that would hopefully keep her face sufficiently indistinct. As a last touch, she considered her walking stick for a long moment of debate. On the one hand, a man hired for his muscle would be unlikely to show any sign of less than perfect physical prowess. On the other, it would be wise to have it at hand in case her leg gave her undue trouble.

"I can always use it to beat people," Watson mused after a moment, taking up the more battered of her two sticks. She made a mental note to splash as much mud over its surface as possible.

In the hallway, she found Holmes in an entirely different grab from that of the afternoon. He wore a cheap suit and the sneer of a criminal. He looked the part of a slimy creature of London's underworld. Were Watson not well adept at finding her dearest friend hiding beneath his many disguises, she would not have suspected him to be the same man.

"God in heaven, Holmes," Watson said with a grin. "I hardly recognize you. I feel as though I need to make sure my watch is still in my pocket."

Holmes chuckled. "I promise, your watch will not go missing. At least not at my hands. Now come."

They caught a hansom only a street away from their lodgings and Holmes directed the driver to take them to the dockside as quickly as possible. For several minutes they rattled along in companionable silence. The streets they clattered down were veiled in a thick fog, hanging ghostly tendrils low over glowing shop windows. Watson wrapped her coat more tightly around her middle and hunkered low in her seat.

They departed from the hansom on a street corner in front of a closed tailor's shop/ Holmes adopted a slinking posture, hands jammed deeply in his pockets and shoulder hunched.

"Follow my lead," Holmes instructed. "For the evening, my name is Reilly. And remember, the men we will encounter are the worst criminal sort and not to be underestimated."

Were Watson's skin thinner, she would have felt some sting at the implied suggestion that she was not necessarily up to the task of defending herself and her friend. But her knowledge of Holmes allayed such thoughts. Holmes was, at his core, a coldly logical realist. And such a warning could only be interpreted as his own concerns being given a voice. Watson heeded them; she had no desire to be the next poor sod fished out of the river with a knife in her back.

They set off through London's seediest streets. Before long they were in the thick of the crowd, weaving between stumbling, ranting drunks with the acrid, sour smell of vomit clinging to their skin and ragged, filthy children with faces pinched for hunger and clever fingers. Men and women exhausted from the day's hard labor for a few scant pennies haggled on the street for a bit of food to take home to their children. Prostitutes stood on the corners, some as plainly dressed as any housewife and others done with thick makeup coloring their faces. alluringly sweet smoke drifted in a blue tinged haze from the tiny cracks in the windows of closed opium dens and games of loaded dice and marked cards were played against the dirty walls of dilapidated buildings.

Holmes led Watson on a meandering path with many turns and circles. She kept a wary eye on it all, taking especially careful note of muscled men who observed the pair of them like they were an unusually good cut of beef in the butcher's window. Watson kept her hand near her gun, loath as she was to fire it.

To be beaten by a roughneck would be undeniably painful and would no doubt cause even more pain in her leg than usual, but the greater danger lay outside the solid impact of heavy fists. It lay in the fear that such men would discover the secret of her sex and take their pint of flesh in a deeper violation. If it came to such terms, Watson would use her gun without mercy or guilt.

After half an hour had passed, Holmes's direction took on a new certainty. Very soon they arrived outside a low, hulking building made of grimy, sooty stone. A man of extraordinary height and girth stood posted outside the door, wearing a cheap coat that strained and creaked against the bulge of his muscles. His face was a blunt, emotionless mask, well marked by the scars of many bygone battles. Watson observed him with a cocked eyebrow; there was no chance in heaven or hell this man would let them pass undisturbed.

Holmes climbed the steps with pointed insouciance surrounding his hunched shoulders like a halo of cheap authority. Watson's height was impressive for a woman, but not a man and she endeavored to stretch every inch to her advantage. With great and obvious disdain, Holmes scanned the guard and says, "I've business with Sloane," in a broad accent that Watson could only connect to his usual tones with great difficulty.

"What's yer name?" the guard growled, like a dog straining at its chain to attack.

"Reilly," Holmes said with a crooked, sneering grin. Watson prayed silently that this alias held some significance she did not understand. "And this is my man."

For a taunt moment, Watson experienced the distinct fear that the slavering guard dog of a man would draw some blunt weapon bash in both their heads. She tightened one hand around her cane and let the other slide surreptitiously toward her gun. Coldly, she calculated the odds she would be able to rap the man across the temple before his ham hock fists broke Holmes's nose and likely deprived him of consciousness. She reckoned the guard was built for strength, not speed, and she and Holmes could easily outrun him.

However, with an expression of obvious reluctance and regret, the man pushed the door open with a prolonged squeal of hinges. "Third door onna right. There'll be another man outside it, y'can't miss it."

Holmes (or, the character of Reilly that currently inhabited his form) did not condescend to offer the hulking door warden an additional reply. He slunk through the entrance and down the hall, Watson in tow.

As Watson crossed the threshold, she felt the curious sensation of being expertly estimated by the guard. She counted herself an able opponent in a brawl, within the provisions that blows be kept above the waist and her bad leg shielded from any vicious and cowardly kicks. She'd been well trained by the army and had consciously kept her healed body in excellent physical condition. Furthermore, there were few men who could boast better aim than she. Even Holmes could not often best her at marksmanship.

However, she understood in that moment with quiet certainty that the guard at the door could break her bones without even the smallest effort. And quite likely he would be glad to do it.

The entrance opened up to a long, narrow hall that might have once been grandly furnished, but had fallen into dampness, disrepute, and disrepair. Precisely as they had been told, at the third door in the right stood another man. He was of a much different type than the first guard, standing no more than average height and of a thin, rangy build. He was a fraction of the physical threat presented by the first guard, but his eyes gleamed with a rat-like intelligence.

Just as the first guard would find pleasure in the crack of breaking bones, Watson suspected this second guard would find pleasure in the flick of a honed knife and the resultant screams. She was not shocked to discover an intense dislike for being caught between the two men with no obvious escape.

Holmes approached the second guard and stood facing him, nose to nose. "My name's Reilly," he said. Watson made a note to demand what kind of extraordinary weight the name Reilly carried she did not understand.

The second guard looked Holmes up and down, sneering to reveal brown teeth. Watson stood taut, hoping quite fervently that Peter Cox's damned ghost was worth this trouble and that they wouldn't die in pursuit of it. "Yer man'll wait out here," the guard drawled. Watson noticed the bulge of weapons at both sides of his jacket and her stomach tightened.

"Fine." Holmes gestured Watson to the other side of the corridor, where she might stand with her back to the opposite wall and her eyes easily trained on either guard and either door. She took the indicated position and reveled internally at the unhappy grimace that passed over the second guard's face. He had expected her to take a place on the other side of the door.

As at the front, the second guard pushed the door open with a moan of dilapidated hinges and Holmes slipped inside. Watson stole a single glance of several large, dangerous looking men arranged inside before the second guard pulled the door shut and assumed a post with his arms folded over his chest.

Nervous and alert though Watson was, as the minutes began to tick past with nothing but the occasional faint murmur of voices filtering from the room within, her mind began to wander from fruitless wondering at what on earth was happening. She could not sustain such a state of agitation without the complete surrender of her faculties.

Turning her mind to the case at hand, Watson attempted to pull the pieces of Holmes' thoughts together. She knew well that her gift for seeing the larger whole of complicated patterns was nowhere near that of Holmes, no one's was, but she had learned a great deal and logic came easier than it once had.

Holmes had adopted the alias Reilly, which seemed a common enough surname to Watson's ears. However, it obviously carried some greater significance within the building. He has told the man at the front that they were here to see a Sloane. If Watson's memory of London's criminal networks held true, there was a man of no small significance with the name of Sloane who operated in violence and theft, just as Adam Cox had.

Thus, it was logical to deduce that Holmes believed this Sloan to have some knowledge of the Old Cox, likely through business dealings undertaken during the man's life that had desisted at the time Peter assumed the mantle of head of the family. And as their case related to a ghost, that old relationship had to have some bearing there.

But how? Unless Peter Cox was an exceptionally skilled liar with an incomprehensible reason to commit fraud, he had made his distaste for his father's legacy abundantly clear. There was little doubt that there were other forces at work and the list of potential culprits was small; Peter and Emily Cox, and the small staff of three.

Watson frowned to herself. She could see the roughest shape of the case, but not the details and she chafed at the limitation. As soon as she and Holmes returned to Baker Street, she would be sitting her dearest friend down for a nice long chat.

Several more minutes slid neatly away and Watson was hard pressed to keep herself from undue fidgeting. She very much wanted to shift back and forth on her feet, if only to relieve the pressure building down her leg. But no, such actions would make her appear nervous and that would hardly do in light of the probably blood thirsty murders standing in the hallway.

And then, quite suddenly, the door flew open with a resounding bang and Holmes crashed over the threshold, followed by a motley pack of men embroiled in as vicious a fight as Watson has ever seen. She garnered a single impression of flying fists and faces twisted into expressions of exquisite anger.

Holmes's back crashed against the corridor a mere two feet from her; his fists lashed out as the men who had formerly inhabited the room came at him. Watson, in the brief glimpses she could garner, saw blood at the corner of his mouth and trickling down his nose. Despite that, he moved with a grace and precision that had always earned her admiration.

In contrast, his opponents swung wildly, though not without skill. They lunged like men accustomed to the roughest manner of brawling and employed those skills with no small success.

In an instant, the second guard sprang into the moil, slipping between the brawling bodies like a rat. Watson experienced a single, inadvertent moment of motionless shock before she remembered that she was the ostensible hired muscle and, thus, this was strictly her provenance. She inhaled deeply and lunged, raising her cane and bringing it down with as much strength as she could muster across one man's pinstriped back.

Within a few moments, she had placed herself in front of Holmes, using her cane to black as many blows as possible. She would not use her gun unless there was no other options, but as the odds to her quick scan appeared to be the two of them against at least seven, their circumstances had begun to seem dire. A blow landed in the soft flesh of her stomach and she grunted, stabbing blindly with her cane. Holmes did his best to work around the shield of her body, landing extraordinarily painful blows with cold precision.

Watson pulled in as a deep a breath as the bandages wrapped tightly around her chest would allow. In her many years of living outside the assignment of her sex, she had grown accustomed to taking three fourths the breath of every other man, so much so that it rarely caused her much trouble. Her bandages were, at least, far preferable to the suffocating constraints of corsets. Nonetheless, moments still came when she had to fight very hard to not rip them open and take a damned deep gulp of air.

In was in this state of profound distraction, breath coming ragged with effort, that Watson did not see one of the men draw a knife. And, more critically, she did not see the man swipe for her until a slash of white pain razored across her stomach.

Unthinkingly, Watson clapped a hand to her stomach and let out a noise. To her own ears, it was inaudible against the roar of the surrounding brawl. But Holmes's senses had always been keen to the point of unearthly and he must have heard, for in the next moment he seized Watson's pistol and fired a wild shot into the ceiling.

Holmes threw his arm around Watson's waist and yanked her to the side, thundering down the narrow hallway like a man possessed. The first guard filled their exit to freedom like a gate of solid stone, cracking his knuckles while the others pursued. Holmes raised the pistol again and fired, slicing across the first guard's shoulder in a fine spray of blood. The man let out a howl and twisted to the side, leaving just enough room for Holmes to charge through the door and drag Watson behind him.

In un-synchronized steps, they tumbled down the stairs and burst into the crowd. Watson tossed her head over her shoulder and saw several of their pursuers become miraculously entangled in each other, arcing down the stairs in a writhing mass that landed in the filth of the cobblestones.

Their footsteps sounded on the street in dull thuds, splashing in the puddles of water and refuse that lay stagnant among the stones. Holmes wove through the crowd with extraordinary dexterity, dragging Watson behind him on unsteady feet. She could hear her blood pounding in her ears and her fingers were slick with it. She didn't think death was looming close, but the wound burned with sharp pain and fear tasted acrid in her throat.

She followed Holmes around the corner, hot on his heels. A scattering of men, women, and children standing in the doorways that led onto the alley watched with half interested amusement, as though chases through the labyrinth streets of the slums were as commonplace as girls selling flowers. Watson dodged around a small child with dirt smeared across its cheeks and realized that such indeed might be the truth.

For several minutes, Holmes pulled her along a winding path of alleys until they emerged into an abandoned lane of filth and soot, deeply shadowed at both ends. They stood together, gasping deeply from the exertion, ears straining for any sound of the mob with their blood hot on their minds. Through the roar, Watson heard nothing but something small rustle and liquid drip. But there were no thunderous footsteps and no cries.

Watson's unsteady limbs sent her falling gracelessly the rest of the way to the sodden, filthy ground. Cold water began to seep through the knee of her trousers, but that, of course, was of secondary concern to the pain across her stomach. She felt mildly on the verge of doing something so foolish as swooning and violently shook her head. The pain was sharp and immediate and the flow of blood over her fingers steady.

"Watson." With a deliberateness that belied the nearly panicked concern in his eyes, Holmes dashed out the alleyway and fell to his knees beside Watson. "Good God, man."

To her credit, Watson tried to form the appropriately reassuring words called for by the situation. But her tongue turned obstinate, refusing to cooperate into anything more than faint babbles of her own wellness. To her own ears they were hardly the reassuring tones she had perfected on scared, wounded boys in countries far and away from England.

Holmes pulled at her fingers and Watson gasped slightly. Decently minor wound though it was, it's source still lay in a knife and it did hurt. "Allow me, Doctor," Holmes said, shoving at her coat with impatient, but still deeply precise fingers. Watson shrugged her shoulder out of the fabric and it fell to the ground, landing neatly in a puddle. Had it not already been likely irreversibly stained by blood, she'd have mourned the soiling of her clothing.

Again, Holmes probed the wound and, to her surprise, small spots of gray danced in front of Watson's eyes. "Shock," she managed, then shook her head and swallowed. She needed to tell Holmes as clearly as possibly that she wasn't mortally wounded, just wounded enough to have her head refusing to cooperate. With her blood slicked free hand, she tried to tangle her fingers in his, but he very efficiently, if gently, batted them away.

"I do apologize," Holmes said, "But I must see, Doctor."

It took her a moment to realize that Holmes had not taken the moment to straighten her tie, but rather had begun to undo the buttons of her shirt.

Immediately, bells of warning began to sound in the back and fore of Watson's mind.

"No," she fumbled out. "Holmes."

"Your modesty is ill-placed, old boy," Holmes said intently. "You are wounded."

_I know that perfectly well_, Watson thought, _But there are worse things than wounds_.

Many years ago, Watson had made her choice with how to best lead her life and she had never regretted it, nor found anything but relative happiness in it. As a young girl, she had resigned herself quietly to the reality that she would never be anything resembling a lady and the attempt would very much drive her mad. She was at peace with her form, inasmuch was possible, but she could not resign her ambitions to the limitations placed on her sex.

"Holmes," Watson attempted once more, pulling at his hands. The damned gray spots continued their taunting dance in her vision. She needed to clean the wound. She needed to stitch it up and see it bandaged. And then perhaps she needed a glass of water and to put her head between her legs, because the world had begun to tilt uncomfortably on its axis.

"You'll be quite all right, my dear doctor," Holmes assured her unnecessarily. His clever hands continued their work at her buttons.

Blood continued to drop down her arm, over her fumbling fingers and his steady ones. And, of course, before she could muster her remaining faculties to beg Holmes in the name of their friendship and their shared rooms to leave well enough alone, Holmes had tugged open her shirt and begun to pull it down her shoulder with efficiency that would have done any field surgeon proud.

For half a moment, Watson hoped that the darkness might serve her as a friend and keep Holmes' observant eyes from seeing. But the man had not come to his position by overlooking what was right beneath his nose and half a heartbeat later his hands suddenly stilled. One pressed against the ripped open wound in her stomach, the other hovered just above her collarbone. He did not touch the bandages strapped tightly about her ribs and damning anatomy, but even in the gloom she could read the flicker of sudden understanding in his dark eyes.

"Come, old—. Come, Doctor," Holmes said resolutely, sliding his arm around her waist and hauling her to unsteady feet. "We must get back to Baker Street. What I have learned tonight was exceedingly interesting."

With Watson leaning heavily against Holmes's side, they made their way out of the alley and back into a busier street. On the corner stood a boy selling matches with a cap drawn down low over his head. He looked at the pair of them, both covered liberally in blood and filth and sweat.

"He all right?" the boy asked, taking a step forward.

"He's perfectly fine," Holmes replied, tightening his grip around Watson's waist. "A simple wound, however ghastly it might appear."

"He doesn't look it. Should I get a doctor?"

However reluctant Watson thoughts were to reorder themselves, she had faculties enough to known damned well a doctor was the last thing she needed. A doctor had been the source of all her troubles the first time around and she had little desire to repeat the experience.

To her great relief, Holmes said, "No, thank you. He is a doctor and a there is no finer one to be had. Another man would do little but cause irritation. Now, I believe we shall return to our rooms. If you would be so good as to hail a cab?"

The look of incredulity did not quite manage to leave the boy's face, but he did hail them a cab and hold open the door while Holmes bundled Watson inside. She let out a long, ragged breath while Holmes relayed their address to the driver, pressing her forehead to the glass pane of the window. With her free hand, she tugged her shirt closed and managed to do a handful of the buttons with clumsy fingers.

She realized her jacket had not been included in her and Holmes stumbled flight from the alley and was almost certainly lost. Under her breath, she quietly mumbled out a curse learned in the worst of her army service. Not merely for the lost jacket, of course, but for the whole cursed night and the cold fear clinging tight to her spine.

Holmes was a man to value to skill over all else, but he was also a man who hardly paid any consideration to women, excepting, of course, _the woman_ and that was an admiration that was assumed, not spoken. She folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes. She would not allow herself to feel shame. No, she would make the ride back to Baker Street in as much peace as was possible considering the hole in her stomach.

One crisis at a time, as she had been taught in the army.

Watson jumped slightly when Holmes clambered into the cab and shut the door. They set off with a jerk and rattled down the uneven streets toward home.

For the whole of the journey, Holmes kept his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes watching the city passing by outside the window. He tapped his thumb against his knee in a steady rhythm that Watson's mind settled on. She imagined, fancifully, that it echoed the quick beat of her heart, then quickly dismissed the thought as the height of ridiculousness.

Time slipped away from her for a moment; it seemed only the blink of an eye and they were pulled in front of 221 Baker Street. "A moment to pay the man, Doctor," Holmes said and jumped neatly from the cab.

Clearly, Watson realized that as much as she needed the privacy of her rooms to tend to the wound on her stomach, she needed them as well for the privacy. With feet just slightly steadier for the moment of rest, she stepped from the cab to the pavement. The ground tilted only slightly before righting itself and, with gritted teeth, she made her way up the steps and through the heavy front door.

She heard Holmes' quick footsteps behind her, then the sound of the door closing and silence.

Mrs. Hudson had long since learned that there was little reward in waiting till all hours of the night for her tenants to return from whatever in God's name it was they got up to. She'd informed them of her intention to retire at nine o' clock each night, whether they had returned from their misadventures or not. She had, however, left the fire burning low and for that Watson was grateful.

"Can I be of service, Watson?" Holmes asked.

To the untrained ear of one not accustomed the many vagaries of his moods and dispositions, his voice sounded perfectly normal. Perhaps even a touch lighter than the wounding of a comrade called for. To Watson, it was his voice of careful neutrality.

Turning, she smiled as best she could. "No, I can stitch it up well enough on my own, Holmes, thank you."

She turned on her heel at that and deliberately climbed the stairs, trying her very best to not feel the imagined weight of Holmes' gaze between her shoulder blades.

Safely inside her rooms, Watson slumped against her closed door, eyes shut. She took several deep breaths, against the pain and the growing reality of the realization that Holmes had, at last, come to know her single greatest secret. Perhaps it was always an inevitable moment, but she still mourned the loss of their easy friendship that was sure to follow.

But there was nothing she could do to the change the course of the night and dying of blood loss was hardly a solution. Neither would Mrs. Hudson appreciate the blood on her carpets.

"Right then. Come on," Watson said to herself in the businesslike tone she had learned to use with reticent soldiers who believed only the weak allowed something as trifling as mortal wounds to keep them from battle. She undid the buttons on her ruined shirt and let it fall to the floor in a forlorn, battered heap. Her undershirt followed.

With less ease, she untied the bandages around her breasts and let gravity do the greater part of the work of unwinding them. Her next breath expanded her ribs in a rush that was both a deep relief and filled with the ache of her restricted bones and muscles. Deep, violently red runnels decorated her flesh from rib to hip and the flesh of her sides seemed faintly bruised. It caused her little concern; such was the price she paid.

In deference to modesty that she had never quite been able to overcome, she slid her undershirt back on. The rub of loose material against her unbound small breasts felt odd, as always, but she pushed the thought aside.

She managed to pour water into the ewer on the small table beneath the window with minimal difficulty. She made herself take slow, even breaths, both to combat the steady throb and the dull panic only tenuously chained in the back of her mind. It threatened with every motion to break out and overwhelm her and there was little she could think that would be less helpful.

She soaked a clean cloth in the water and began to gently dab at the blood drying on her skin. "Steady on," she muttered to herself through gritted teeth. The water stung, blooming into a pink stain on the white fabric. The dampness reopened the wound to a slow seep of blood.

Watson was no stranger to doctoring her own hurts. In war, of course, the physicians themselves were hardly immune from the same trifling injuries that affected all the men. And upon her somewhat quietly dishonorable return to England, she had fallen into a series of bad habits that rather often necessitated the use of her own skills. Those grey-tinged months she was infinitely less proud of than her service, but they had undeniably served a purpose in teaching how to best ignore one's own hurt.

As she cleaned the knife's grazed path across her stomach, she supposed it was entirely inevitable that thoughts of the army and Afghanistan might return to the front of her mind. No matter how much time passed, they remained like a raw sore in her memories, tangling pride and pleasure with fear and hurts that lingered on the skin and beneath it.

In many ways, her time in the army stood as the first great and irrevocable lie she had ever told and the choice that she could never quite reconcile between regret and satisfaction.

At the time, fresh out of medical school and rich with both the triumph of having earned her title and having gone through the entire process without a single soul suspecting that beneath her suits lay feminine anatomy, Watson had felt as though the entire world rested squarely in her palms. She had succeeded where she had never really expected to and she had done so with aplomb, nerve, and gratifying capability. She was not merely a _doctor_, she was a _good doctor_.

Disguising the truth of her sex from her fellows in medical school was no small task, even with her own predilection for keeping a slight distance. She learned to walk a fine line between an acceptable reticence and noteworthy hermitage. Sitting with her classmates as they made eyes at the pretty girls and flirted, Watson found a curious sort of accidental tutelage. From those brash, arrogantly intelligent young men, she learned to adjust her stance and her gait to that of man's, rather than the strange hybrid she had loped around London in. They taught her through simple act of existence how to move through the world in masculine ways.

In those smoky nights, with alcohol in her hand, Watson too had learned how to flirt with a pretty girl with blue eyes and dark hair, kiss her hand in such a way that she would cry, "My God, it's the last gentleman in London!" and still part from their company with the reward of a sweet smile on their lips.

Many of her fellows had either found positions in hospitals or set up their own private practices. Watson had assumed that she would follow suit, but. A similar urge to the one that had her abandon petticoats as a young woman could not allow her to settle into such a familiar routine so quickly. The army, with the inherent tales of dashing feats of bravery and thrilling danger, seemed to offer a chance to roam far beyond anything she could have ever imagined.

And all that had come to a stunning end when she woke in a tent, so much of her flesh torn and rudely stitched together.

Watson opened her eyes again a week later and stared for a very long moment at an expanse of scrubbed clean, faded white canvas stretched over her head. For a blessed moment, she felt absolute and utter nothingness. There was no turmoil roiling in her mind, confusion or rage, and her body provided a pleasant lack of physical sensation. She traced a seam in the canvas with bleary eyes, neither knowing nor caring who she was or where she was.

It's quite possible that in such a moment, Watson believed that she was dead and could only surmise by the clean, dim light that she had somehow found entrance into heaven. It was a surprise, to be sure, considering all that she had done since she left England, but not an unpleasant thought.

The mistake she made was such a purely medicinal one that it was almost laughable. She experimentally flexed her fingers and toes and into the blankness rushed a sudden scream of horrifying pain that wrenched a gasp from her mouth and filled her eyes with burning pinpricks of tears.

She was not in heaven, she was in a hospital.

It took no more than five minutes for an orderly to twitch back the drooping curtains that provided some mocking semblance of privacy and note that her eyes were open. A red blush swept across his cheeks in the few moments their gazes met, then he began hollering over his shoulder for a doctor. Watson had a moment of thinking _I am a doctor, you idiot_ before the curtain was swept back by a man in a stained apron with a bushy reddish moustache and a forced smile on his lips.

"Hello, then," the presumed doctor said, taking a hesitant step into her makeshift room. "I see you've finally joined us then, Doctor. Ma'am." Much like the orderly, he blushed deeply and looked at the floor.

Watson breath arrested in her chest and her heart began to pound against the cage of her ribs like it needed very badly to escape. She'd chosen to live as she did knowing that the danger of discovery would be one that she could never entirely escape. Often enough she'd indulged in fantasy of what the inevitable moment would be like. The more fanciful ones included weeping and screaming, accusation of witchcraft and sorcery, and being led to the gallows while the collected citizenry of London hurled rotten fruits epithets.

Of course, a pair of blushing army medical men was hardly much preferable.

"What happened?" Watson asked. Her voice was rusty with disuse and threaded through with pain. She'd continued her careful exploration of her body and realized with cold dread that the centers of pain stretched from her shoulder to her leg in a continuous line of varying degrees of agony.

The doctor fired off an order for the orderly to go and find Colonel something or other, she didn't quite manage to catch the name, though she could easily surmise the reason. The doctor himself came to sit at her bedside on a low, roughly made stool. He stroked his impressive moustache for a moment, casting uneasy glances at her torso from the corner of his eye.

Watson realized belatedly that her breasts weren't bound during the daylight hours for the first time in years. Looking down, the slight swell of them made her throat tighten in discomfort. The doctor jerked his eyes away and cleared his throat as though he were caught at untoward leering toward a lady. Watson had half a blackly humorous mind to tell him that she didn't think him a lecher, merely astonished.

"Well, then," the doctor said, draping a tone of impeccable professionalism over his words and carriage. "You were shot in the shoulder and leg. It's more shrapnel than anything else, but that can at times cause more damage than a bullet. We removed all that we could. It was uncertain for a bit, but you pulled through. You will have scars, though, and that leg might give you trouble, depending."

He spoke in slow, careful cadences. It was the very tone Watson had learned to use with soldiers who cared nothing for the medical jargon when it came to pieces of their flesh lying on the ground. A swell of miserable anger unfurled in her chest. She was a commended war surgeon for the love of God, she didn't need the layman's version.

But of course, in the eyes of this man she was no longer John Watson but a female creature. And, of course, made lesser by that fact. Helplessness joined the rage and Watson clenched her jaw.

In short order, the orderly returned with a crisply uniformed officer in tow. He wore his coat with shoulders thrown back and chin held high; Watson would have dismissed him for a rich little peacock were it not for the trail of a scar bracketing his mouth and a certain quiet knowingness in his brown eyes. The officer dismissed the medical men and took the doctor's place on the stool.

Watson met his frank gaze, despite the headache beginning to plague her skull, and earned a wry smile. "I suppose the most obvious question is who the hell you are and how the hell you got here, Doctor Watson."

Watson could confess, if only to herself, a certain desire to relay the entire tale to the man sitting beside her bed who seemed more bemused than anything else. She had not imagined the difficulty inherent to such constant secrecy when one chose to adopt the clothes, means, and life of a man. To never risk the luxury of a single close confidant had worn on her along with the years.

But. But he was still a man of Her Majesty's Army and with that came certain duties that Watson could well appreciate.

And so she returned his level gaze with pointed silence. After a brief moment that could hardly be called a contest of wills so much as an acknowledgment of position, the colonel dipped his head in acquiescence. "I suppose it's not completely important, all things considered."

Watson raised her eyebrows. "Pardon?"

The colonel's face slipped into a momentarily calculating mask. "The battle, Doctor. We did not, as they say, win it. Current morale leaves somewhat to be desired." He inspected his nails for a theatrical moment that Watson endured with silence. Privately, she predicted this polished young man would find his gravitas and flair lent well to politics, just as soon as he had decorated himself with enough marshal glory.

"You're rather popular. Did you know? Typically the bone-setters aren't camp favorites. Too much blood on their hands, even if they didn't pull the trigger. But you seem to have quite well acquitted yourself among the soldiers. They rather prefer to think of you as a bit of a hero."

The word sat strangely, uncomfortably, on Watson's shoulders. She had quite possibly never felt less heroic in her entire life than she did in this moment. Personally, she'd have used something more like failure.

"I'm flattered," she said slowly, "But I sense I'm not entirely understanding your point."

The colonel barked out a short laugh. "With morale already leaving the men unhappy and often wounded, can you imagine what the news of their very favorite doctor being a woman would do? I can't pretend to understand your motives, but considering you are before me now, you cannot truly lack intelligence. To reveal your sex would be not only cause a massive uproar. It would be a disaster for morale."

Watson stared.

The ache in her head had begun to spread insidious tendrils throughout the rest of her skull. Pain pushed at the backs of her eyes and curled around the base of her spine like the arms of a sea beast, clutching tighter with every passing second. It only made the sharper pain in her tattered body all the more insistent. She wanted sleep very badly, or even the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness.

She found that she didn't care a damn bit about what this officer had to tell her. She could reconcile her pride to dishonor and she would accept any punishment they meted out. Watson merely need to _know_.

"All this having been said," the colonel continued, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest. Quite suddenly he looked like a disdainful officer. "We are prepared to offer you an exchange."

Her ears perked up.

The terms he laid before her were breathtaking in their simplicity and clarity. She would be quietly given a medical discharge and sent back to London. They would say nothing of her deception, nothing of her sex in exchange for her silence on the matter. She would swear to never again live as a man or insert herself into the army in any capacity. John Watson would be listed as a casualty of their unfortunate conflict.

It was incredibly neat and the colonel looked both expectant and satisfied as he concluded.

Long ago, Watson had sworn to herself that the armies of neither heaven or hell could force her back into the position in life she had finally fled. Dramatic though the words echoed down through the years of her history, the sentiment had become one of the guiding principles of her life. She had lived with a freedom that seemed always unattainable as a child. Had accomplished beyond limitation.

To be perfectly honest, she was not certain at all that she could go back.

But on the other side of that coin lay punishment, which she had no doubt of her ability to endure. It was more that the truth would damn her irredeemably in the eyes of all those she had fought so terribly hard to earn the respect of. And that blow to her hard won pride was a wound more mortal than any that throbbed along her back.

"Very well," Watson said, closing her eyes. "I accept."

Watson spent nearly three months in the field hospital before being returned to London. And, to her credit, she tried admirably for nearly another month to fulfill the terms of her bargain. But a woman on her own was hardly sought after commodity, much less a woman scarred and limping who suffered from nightmares and fevers. And, in the end, Watson found her options to be death or a return to the world of men. And though she was accused by more than one acquaintance of harboring a death wish, it was not yet so concrete that she could hold a gun to her temple.

The months that followed were not without their particular difficulties. And then Holmes came along, in all his eccentric glory.

And now Watson found herself sitting at her window like a sighing young girl, though she certainly hoped not many young girls had occasion to sew up their own knife wounds. Pensive, Watson shook her head. Quite independent of conscious thought, she had finished wiping away the majority of the blood that had dripped down her side.

She disliked thinking of her return to England. It still smacked of coercion and she'd always, _always_ hated feeling helpless.

Watson closed her eyes for a moment and systematically locked those days back in the deepest place of her mind, where they resided apart from the person she was every day. John Watson was a name unremarkable enough that no one noted two doctors wearing it. And besides, the current John Watson was a bit of a craven creature with line sprayed out from the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth. He limped. He was not the fresh-faced young man who went to Afghanistan and died.

Opening her eyes, Watson examined the newly cleaned wound with careful precision. It was a fairly simple flesh wound. She estimated no more than three or four stitches would be sufficient. She even had the required needle and thread in her medical bag sitting beside the fireplace.

She gathered her supplies to her, neatly laying them out on the surface of a small table usually kept beside her favorite chair. There was much comfort to be found in the familiar, methodical rhythms of preparing to practice her craft. Watson was, to her core, a woman meant to heal and the calm that washed over her when she was healing knew no equal in the world.

Slowly, carefully, she threaded her curved suturing needle. She'd learned to do that particularly task quickly and with no fuss in her years a physician. There was little worse for a worried patient's already fragile nerves than to fumble her way through the very simple task of preparing a needle and thread.

The more difficult part was, of course, actually pushing said needle through her reddened, tender flesh. Were she stitching another human back together, she'd offer them a fortifying drop of something suitably strong. However, she learned the difficult way that the numbing effects were hardly worth the crooked stitches made by an intoxicated hand. The single thing more unpleasant than giving oneself stitches was having to remove those stitches the very next morning and repeat the process with a throbbing headache.

Watson took in a steady, calming breath and forcefully pushed the needle through with her exhale. Her eyes pricked at the sharp stab of pain, but it settled quickly. She had also learned that the worst part of the job was her mental revulsion. The pain itself was unpleasant, of course, but not much worse than the limp she lived with every day of her life.

It didn't take much more than ten or fifteen minutes to put in four neat stitches, tie them off, and covered the wound with a light bandage. "It should heal rather nicely," she murmured to herself, voice just slightly hoarse from the night's exertions. "You might have a scar, however."

In truth, she thought the battered feeling draped over her body was less from the bullet wound and more from the rather rude shock of Holmes discovering her sex. Watson's shoulders slumped at the thought and a wave of exhaustion that stretched into her very bones crashed against her already exhausted person. She'd made a dire mistake in becoming far too comfortable in her life with Holmes. Practice ought to have taught her that constant vigilance was the only guard in the preservation of her chosen life.

Watson frowned, rubbing her jaw. She had half a mind to go to Holmes, sit down, and explain everything. Holmes, despite occasional appearances to the contrary, was not _truly_ an irrational man. There was a chance, however slight, that he would appreciate the cold logic that had gone into Watson's choice when she decided to leave behind the person of Josephine Watson and become John.

But no. Cursing herself for a coward, Watson could not risk the chance of hastening any possible impending break between herself and Holmes. She valued his friendship too highly. He had done much more for the state of her general health and happiness than he could ever possibly know. Watson would never admit it to the man himself, but he was a very odd sort of hero to her and she fancied that she had made herself useful enough to him to matter, in some way.

"Damn everything," Watson cursed. She pushed her hand through her hair. This indecision was a torture that she found difficult to swallow.

She very briefly considered the option of gathering her most important possessions together and stealing away in the night. It was almost a romantic notion. She could leave behind a note penned in a hand shaking with emotion (perhaps dotted with a few smeared tears) and set off once again for parts unknown to have another go at making her fortune.

Of course, Watson dismissed that thought before it was even fully formed with a bitten-off laugh. Such theatrics were much more in keeping with Holmes's aesthetic than her own. She was more sensible than that and damn good thing, too. They'd both have been turned out on their ears long since with two such dramatics in residence.

The best thing to be done, she knew, was to take her exhausted self to bed and see what the morning brought. Her mother once told her that the morning cured all ills, a maxim Watson no longer believed with the fervency of a child; but it seemed to be the best advice she had for the present.

Reluctantly, Watson crawled into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. She expected sleep to be long in coming, but the exertions of the night crept over her with inexorable certainty and soon she was gone to the world.

In the morning, she woke to light seeping in through an accidental crack in the curtains. Her entire body felt stiff from the go, as though someone had mercilessly taken a club to her soft parts with cruel precision. She groaned softly, squeezing her eyes closed and rolled gingerly onto her uninjured side. The stitches in her stomach throbbed steadily, but without the radiating warmth that would have signaled infection.

Watson blearily fumbled through the events of the previous night. She remembered the unexpected brawl and the pain of a knife to her stomach, then flight through the alleys and finally falling to her knees in a rank puddle.

She remembered Holmes kneeling beside her with his face schooled into an expression of careful calm. His fingers on her collar. She remembered.

"Oh, God." Watson's eyes jerked open and she struggled against her uncooperative body to sit upright in bed. She _remembered_ and the bitter remains of the previous day's panic flooded into the back of her throat.

Wincing, she strained to listen for the usual morning sounds of Mrs. Hudson preparing breakfast and found small comfort in finding them. The good woman was even whistling. It was unlikely Holmes had simply waited for morning to unleash a belated amount of wrath at Watson's deception.

Watson forced herself to take several deep breaths and slowly the shuddering feeling in her chest receded to something she could manage. "Calm down," she ordered herself and, though obedience was slow, it did come. There was little enough she could do about her predicament now and, as hiding away in her rooms for the rest of all eternity was hardly a viable option, the only one left was to prepare for the day and face whatever Holmes had to say.

She perhaps took slightly longer than normal to dress, but she was only human, after all. For a moment, she held the linens that had bound her chest for so many years and wondered, rebelliously, what Holmes's reaction would be if she tossed them aside. Her breasts were small enough to be no more of a hindrance than the perceptions of others they brought. The thought had an undeniable appeal. She had never before allowed someone to see the entirety of herself.

But the practice of habit and the undeniable repercussions won out in the end. She wrapped her chest in the linens, though she did perhaps notice the discomfort of them more than she had the day before.

Added to her usual routine was a moment to check the wound on her stomach and satisfy the doctor in her that it was healing as well as could be expected a mere twelve hours after the fact. The flesh was still reddened, but markedly less swollen. The stitches were clean and neat as could be expected having been done with under the given circumstances. Carefully, Watson replaced the bandage and dressed.

Once she had done up the laces of her boots, fixed her tie, and pulled on her jacket, Watson took an unaccustomed moment to take measure of her reflection in the mirror. She looked nearly the same as she supposed she had the day before. Perhaps with a few more shadows under her eyes and with a more pronounced tilt to her posture in deference the physical exertion that always aggravated her limp.

In essence, however, she looked as John Watson had every moment from the day he moved into 221 Baker Street. And, oddly, that gave her a measure of strength she had not realized she needed. Hope, as well, that Holmes would be able to realize that the body beneath the clothes in no way changed the quality of the man, or the mind.

Watson descended the stairs grimacing slightly at the ache in her thigh. The difficulty her leg gave her was a constant in her life; the inscrutable vagaries of her body decided whether any given day would be a good day or a troubling one. She expected, given the previous night's madcap flight to be in some pain and wasn't disappointed.

Halfway down, she was able to clearly discern the sound of an exasperate Mrs. Hudson imploring Holmes to please keep his chemical experiments in his rooms or, preferably, at the University laboratory where he often took his more volatile work. Holmes responded witheringly; what use was a house to a man if he was not allowed to ply his trade within its walls. And, furthermore, his experiments very often allowed him to solve cases, which allowed him to be paid, which allowed him to hand over the rent Mrs. Hudson so often harped on about.

It was a very familiar argument and one that Watson suspected would last until the end of one of their days. She rolled her eyes and chuckled to herself, maneuvering down the last of the stairs. She paused for a breath and to rub her palm over the ache in her leg. It subsided back to its usual low throb more quickly than she anticipated and yet Watson lingered outside the sitting room.

Her heart's rhythm had quickened again, which was only to be expected. "He's not unreasonable," she murmured to herself in a fortifying tone. She brushed her hands over her clothes, drew herself to her full height, and walked toward the breakfast table as though the morning were as unremarkable as any other.

She found Holmes perusing the contents of a package whose wrappings lay crumpled in a pile beside his teacup. The table was laid with their usual fair and there was, to her surprised relief, her customary place laid across from Holmes. Hesitantly, Watson crossed the room and slid into her chair, keeping up a very valiant effort at nonchalance.

Holmes looked at her over the top of his papers. "Good morning, Watson," he said and sounded as he did every morning; somewhat distracted by whatever it was he was reading and perhaps a touch excited. He then returned to his papers and said no more.

Watson stared.

She thought it likely she managed to imagine every reaction possible under God in the time it took to clothe herself and make it to the breakfast table. They ranged from explosions of righteous rage to cutting scientific observations about the nature of what was awry in her mind to extraordinarily unlikely histrionics. True, she hadn't been able to imagine which was most likely, but nor had she imagined no reaction at _all_.

"Er," she said, then, noting the high tone of her voice, coughed once. "Good morning, Holmes."

Mrs. Hudson came in from the kitchen and set about filling Watson's plate with bacon, sausages, and eggs. She poured tea into the china cup (the one with the small chip on the rim, Watson noted, from the time Holmes had knocked the entire breakfast table to the floor in a fit of genius that had solved their case and soaked jam into the rug) and added Watson's customary sugar. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome, Doctor," she said and bustled back toward the kitchen.

Quite unsure of what could be going through her companion's mind, Watson picked up her fork and began to pick at her eggs. They were delicious, but caught in her throat nonetheless. She half suspected Holmes of playing some kind of trick on her. The desire to reach across the table and rap him smartly on the back of his head became nearly overwhelming as the moments ticked past.

"Watson," Holmes said suddenly and she jumped, flipping a piece of egg onto the floor. Gladstone was kind enough to take care of the clean up.

"Yes?" she asked, rather more excitably than she intended.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "How is your injury, old boy?"

"My injury?" It took Watson a full ten seconds to remember that, yes, she had _knifed_ the night before and most humans displayed a certain degree of concern when their friends and acquaintances encountered such injuries. "I mean, yes. It's quite fine. It should heal well."

"Excellent."

They lapsed into a silence in which Watson fancied she could hear the roar of blood in her ears. Her hands shook slightly as she sipped at her tea. It took no small amount of effort to keep from chewing at her bottom lip in her nervousness. God in heaven, damn this day.

Holmes finished a piece of toast and pushed back from the table. "I cabled Peter Cox to tell him I would be returning this afternoon."

In her distracted state, Watson first nodded in acquiescence, until her mind realized that Holmes had spoken in the damning singular. He meant to carry on the case without her and that was a start of affairs Watson could very simply not abide. Not unless Holmes's intention was to turn her from Baker Street and reveal the truth of her physical form to the whole of London.

"Have I been dismissed?" Watson asked in a voice lower and strung tighter than she'd intended.

To his credit, Holmes had the grace to flinch. "Forgive me, my dear Doctor, I merely assumed that, considering your injury, it would be inadvisable for you to undertake travels."

Were Watson herself not the patient in question, she might well have agreed with Holmes's assessment of the situation. However, she endeavored to assist in cases with far worse injured than a simple wound in her flesh. She had been shot at, beaten, nearly run down by a cab, and undertaken to piece Holmes back together with two broken fingers. She was not one to retire fainting to her room at the first sign of injury.

"Nonsense," Watson countered, rising to her feet and managing not to display the discomfort of her physical form on her face. "It's a simple wound, Holmes, and will be easily and quickly healed. If I am still welcome, I would prefer to see this case through to the end."

That, perhaps, was a challenge and Holmes rose admirably to the bait. He squared his shoulders and smiled so very graciously, as though he were nothing but the most charming and guilelesss gentleman to ever move through the highest echelons of London society. "Very well, Watson. As you wish."

Their second train ride to Brandywine Manor began much like the first in appearance, but wholly different in mood. Watson experienced none of the buoyant curiosity that had suffused her body and she could devote no more than the most cursory attention to the case at hand. With every drawn breath the slashed wound in her stomach caused fresh discomfort. She had somewhat loosened the bindings around her breasts in deference to healing, but her ribs ached nonetheless, as did her leg.

To be quite plain, Watson knew herself to be in fairly abominable physical condition. But the pains of the flesh were no more than a minor distraction in her thoughts. Holmes said little following breakfast and nothing since they boarded the train. His actions at breakfast had served only to arouse more questions and left none assuaged.

That he had not immediately cast Watson from his side was a blessing. His feigned ignorance was not.

Were Holmes a man to be roused to amorous passions by man or woman, Watson would have suspected an entirely different motive in her friend's conduct. He was coldly indifferent to such attractions, however, and Watson rather thought she stood to suffer more from Holmes's general antipathy toward women.

At such consideration, Watson felt a swell of righteous indignation in her breast. Not merely for her own predicament, but that Holmes could be loathe to see worth in any woman; that women were hardly allowed to show their strength and ability. Watson loved her life with an honest purity born from having been very near to ending it. She would have loved it more if her circumstances allowed her total honesty.

The necessity of her subterfuge styled Watson as a perennial bachelor and a man content with his own company. It could be and often was a terribly lonely existence.

God, what joy it would be to stand as some instance of proof that all the members of her sex were not terminally bound to forced displays of delicacy and hysteria. No more or less than the members of her adopted sex. How many admirable women had stood at the shoulders of men supposed to be great and had never had their own strength deemed noteworthy? What logic lay in men's conception of a species where half the members were able only to stand and wait for rescue?

And damn her own self for a coward that Watson could not stomach the risk of sacrificing the freedom of her life on the chance of change.

She exhaled in a long sigh and turned her gaze from the damp foliage rushing by to Holmes. This maddening man had offered her the most inestimable help in rebuilding a life disrupted by war, drink, injury, and dice. He had been an atrocious housemate and a friend without equal. Watson could not fathom her life without his dizzying influence. And yet she would not linger long if his respect could be so trivially lost.

"Holmes?" Watson said quietly.

His eyes flicked to hers. "Yes?"

The moment became quiet unbearably heavy. Watson's tongue ached to spill the secrets of her youth and education, her service, and dare Holmes to find her lacking. But such truths held so long in secret would not so easily allow themselves to be revealed. And thus Watson retreated into the curious safety of the present case at hand.

"Did you learn anything of particular value from Sloane last night?"

Holmes blinked for a single moment, then smoothly adopted a simulacrum of their usual ease. He steepled his fingers and adjusted more comfortably in his seat. "Of course. The Sloane in question is one Hardwicke Sloane, a man of middling influence and criminal scope in his current position. Ten years ago, however, he was in charge of one of the largest criminal rings in London.

Watson has surmised as much and she nodded. There was a pleasant ease to be hand in the familiar rhythm of working a case. "Allow me to guess. He was partnered with Adam Cox?"

"Precisely. They were, if you'll be so kind as to pardon the phrase, thick as thieves."

"So, that being said, what was the purpose of last night's engagement? It seems to me that such old history could be more easily gleaned from anyone who knew either man ten years ago."

Some memory of the night passed through Holmes's eyes with a nearly undetectable flinch. But he immediately pushed such illogical nonsense aside and resumed his usual composure. "Indeed, but such history is merely the stage upon which our current mystery plays. Our interest lies in more relevant recent events."

"The purpose of last night was to discern if Hardwicke Sloane has any current interest invested in old enterprises. Reilly was not merely an alias, as I'm sure you gleaned. Until recently, he was a criminal beginning to lay foundations in London. Fortunately, he was conveniently murdered a week ago, which allowed for the loan of his identity.

Watson snorted. Only Holmes could apply such practicality and logic to as brutal a crime as homicide. "Please, do continue."

Holmes offered Watson a curious look that she had little bases to interpret. The discomfort between them flared again and suddenly Watson became acutely aware of her body: the smooth flesh on her cheeks, the tightness of her bound breasts, the mound between her legs. Something quite confusingly mixed of shame and fierce pride welled within her.

"In my interview with Sloane," Holmes continued, somewhat unsteadily. It was as though he had dropped the threads of his narrative and could only with difficulty gather them up again. "I learned that the man is searching out partners for a large venture. One meant to return him to highest echelons of the criminal hierarchy."

"Did he mention Cox?" Watson frowned.

"Not by name, but he mentioned the endeavor was a return to formerly profitable ventures, which significantly narrows the field of possibilities. In conjunction with Peter Cox's recent ghost problem, I believe a coincidence might safely be ruled out."

Watson nodded, frowning slightly. "That seems simple enough. Sloane plans to resume some old business he carried on with Adam Cox and it, in some way, involved the manor. Considering Peter Cox's obvious abhorrence for the criminal, it necessitates his removal from the premises. Which leaves only—"

"The matter of who Sloane is in collusion with," Holmes finished with a note of satisfaction. "Which is why we return to Brandywine."

They arrived to a weak, watery sun sitting sullenly in the sky and a very obviously worried Peter Cox waiting with his cart. The man's skin bore a distinct pallor that Watson deduced came from lack of sleep and the prolonged stress of worry. She found it remarkably easy to sympathize with such emotions. Though he had not suffered any physical injury, he was living each day in an ostensibly haunted house.

"Are you both quite all right?" Cox burst out, running a hand through his hair. "I swear, I never expected this damned thing to become _dangerous_."

"We are fine," Holmes reassured him, sweeping past the man and climbing into his cart. Watson eyed the step up with some distaste as she swung their luggage into the back. She had remarkably little desire for the physical exertion required to gain her seat. Though, she had less desire to spend the next two days sleeping on a bench at the train station.

Holmes judiciously sensed the problem and offered her an arm for leverage. Gratefully, Watson took hold and hauled herself up with a grunt of discomfort. Once she had fallen rather gracelessly onto the wooden seat, she could not help but clap a hand over her injured stomach and wince.

"Are you certain?" Cox asked, face creased into an expression of deep concern.

"I became somewhat personally acquainted with a criminal's knife," Watson explained with a sigh. "It sounds much more dramatic that it was." Which, in perfect honesty, was quite certainly a lie, but Watson could not find it within herself to experience guilt.

"A knife!" Cox exclaimed, starling the horse forward a good foot for the volume of his voice. "This must end. I cannot conscience the thought that my difficulties have placed you in such danger."

"The danger has passed," Holmes reasoned clearly. To an observer, it would seem as though he were merely concerned for Cox. To Watson, it was quite clear that he was merely loath to leave a case without having concluded it to his own satisfaction. "Watson and I will merely require one or two nights in your home to find the culprit and that is far from dangerous."

Unease was clear on Cox's face, but it was difficult for any man to argue with Holmes and he reluctantly began to drive the cart toward Brandywine. In contrast to their first such journey, they passed the time in silence. Watson concentrated on keeping herself from wincing too obviously at every rough patch in the road while Holmes sank into his own thoughts. Cox guided the horse with rather more care than was probably required, but Watson could not fault him.

Brandywine Manor was a welcome sight. Watson fell from the cart with a grateful, pained sigh and Holmes followed behind at a more moderate pace. Cox handed off the horse to the grizzled Reg as Emily Cox swept outside. Her husband walked quickly to her, murmuring in her ear as Watson and Holmes gathered their belongings.

Emily trained her eyes on Watson. "You are injured."

It was not a question, quite clearly, but Watson nodded assent. "It's a minor wound."

"Still." Emily unconsciously reached up a hand to touch the curling end of her braid draped on her shoulder. "My husband and I never anticipated any injury when we contacted you. And, as such, we of course have no expectation or demand that you continue with the case. We are not without options. The house can be left, but lives cannot be reclaimed once lost."

Watson bowed her head for a moment, to catch her rushed breath and compose some kind of reply. "I thank you, Mrs. Cox, but the injury has already been done. It will heal well. I find myself in the position now of rather being more motivated to solve this case, rather than less."

A faint smiled played over her mouth, soon brushed away. "We thank you, then. Very much. Please, do come inside."

Quickly, their belongings were squared away into adjoining guest rooms and the four of them retired to the parlor. Holmes, with an excellent flair of theatricality, recounted their adventures to the couple. Cox's horror grew more and more obvious in his guileless face, while Emily listened with an intent, calculating expression.

"It would seem that someone here is more loyal to a dead man than their current master," Emily said upon Holmes's conclusion. "Do you know who?"

Holmes looked at her with an expression that was perilously near to admiration. "I have my suspicions, Madame, but no firm proof. This is why I believe it is necessary for Watson and myself to spend the next day or two here, in order to observe and put the final pieces together."

"Of course," Cox interjected. "You are welcome here as long as you wish."

In deference to the late hour, Cox suggested that they share a simple meal and retire to their rooms for sleep. They could resume their investigation in the morning. Watson found herself in profound agreement with such sentiment and very nearly begged off dinner. It was only politeness than kept her seated at the table. After exchanging good nights with her host and her friend, Watson gratefully retired to her borrowed room.

Watson lay in the dark, listening to the steady tick of the clock on the mantle-piece. It was hardly a matter of her not being tired; certainly she could best describe her state of mind as exhausted. But she'd learned in the dark days between returning to London and finding an anchor at Baker Street that sometimes it was difficult to find real rest when one is so dearly tired.

Sighing, Watson shifted in bed, tossing an arm over his eyes. She laid still for several long minutes, ignoring the restlessness in her limbs and willing the heavy torpor of impending unconsciousness to wash over her. Her body's aches seemed to intensity with every moment that passed, throbbing along with the beat of her heart.

"For heaven's sake," Watson muttered, pushing back the blankets and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Squinting, she turned her eyes to the clock and nearly let loose a cynical laugh to see no more than an hour and a half had crept by since she retired.

Sitting on the bed, she considered her options. She had one of her notebooks with her. It had become her practice, in order to continue her work transcribing the details of Holmes's cases in any spare moments that could be stolen. Usually the practice was soothing in the extreme, suffusing Watson with a sense of pride and accomplishment at all the many extraordinary things her dearest friend had accomplished.

But her mind felt too restless to turn to the task of writing. Watson bit down on her bottom lip and considered her other usual habit for nights when sleep refused to come. She tended to roam about the house, making a circuit of the familiar rooms of 221 Baker Street until exhaustion stole over her or the sun rose and she could prepare for the day.

Granted, she suspected that such nocturnal wanderings were less polite in someone else's home. But the thought of whiling away the rest of the night within the four impersonal walls of a room that was not her own made Watson flinch. "Damn it all," Watson sighed, pushing herself up.

She pulled on her dressing gown and eased out of her borrowed room and down the wide corridor that, if she remembered correctly, led to the library at the back of the house and the parlor. Luck willing, the man and woman of the house would stay safely tucked away in their bedroom. And Holmes, even if he did hear her, would most likely stay in his own room. And, if he did not, Watson would welcome his company, however odd it might be.

The floorboards creaked and moaned softly beneath her feet as she padded down the hallway. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom and, even then, it took a great deal of control to keep from leaping at every unaccounted noise and shadow.

When Watson reached the library, she found a dim strip of golden light glowing beneath the door. She paused, wondering at the odds of it simply being a lamp left burning. Perhaps unwisely, Watson pushed the door open.

Emily Cox sat in a deep chair with her nightgown arrayed to make her appear as an imperious queen in deep contemplation. Her hair lay in curling braid across her shoulder with pieces escaping to frame her delicate face. She stared broodingly at some object Watson could not identify. Her hands dangled off the arm rests and Watson noted her habit of tracing her thumb with her first finger.

At the sound of the door squeaking open, Emily turned her gaze to the door and, perhaps unconsciously, drew herself upwards. "Hello, Doctor."

Watson bowed slightly. "I apologize. I could not sleep, I did not mean to disturb you."

"It's no disturbance," Emily said, shaking her head. "I, too, could not sleep. But you are welcome to join me, if you like."

Considering the distance the lady of the house had shown earlier in the day, Watson was somewhat surprised at the invitation. But she was intrigued by Emily Cox and could hardly turn down an invitation from her hostess. "My pleasure," Watson murmured, crossing the thick carpet and sitting in a chair across from Emily.

For several minutes they sat in silence. Watson tapped her thumb against her knee and listened to the house sigh and settle around them. She looked at Emily and wondered what could put such a pensive look on her face. Watson could imagine, if fancifully, how well Emily and Cox complimented each other.

"Might I ask how long have you and Lord Cox been married?" Watson asked politely.

Emily look at her shrewdly, but seemed to find approval in whatever conclusions she derived and relaxed into a small smile. "There are days it seems as though I have lived my entire life within these walls. But it's really nine years."

"He is very different from his father," Watson said, delicately.

"Ah, well." Emily's face sharpened slightly. "That he is. I'm sure you noticed that his father is not an easy subject."

"I did."

Emily reached up and began to toy with the end of her braid. "I met Adam Cox only once and by then he was already a sick, old man. Even so, he didn't sit easily with me. Of course, he died a month before we were married, so I never needed come to know him well. And thank God for small mercies."

"It speaks to your husband's strength."

"It does." Emily spread the fingers of her left hand and looked at the burnished silver of her ring. "I think Peter is the man he is because of his father. Unlike most men, he simply chose to become the opposite of his father rather than a copy."

Watson eased back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. "May I ask a question?"

Emily raised her eyebrows and met Watson's gaze. "You may, though I cannot guarantee an answer."

"When we arrived this morning, you didn't seem particularly _enthused_." Watson chose her words carefully, doing Emily the courtesy of continuing to keep her gaze. She knew that, at times, she and Holmes both shared a tendency to look past the wives and daughters, the women, unless they were victims themselves. Watson had never particularly approved, but didn't see it as actually harmful and said nothing.

"Oh." Emily's cheeks flushed slightly pink, but she kept her chin raised. "I think my husband is a good man, an intelligent man. But I think he is also jumping at shadows and looking for a reason to leave this house without admitting weakness."

Watson raised a questioning eyebrow. Emily rose from her chair and swept to a low table covered in a myriad of half read books and scattered papers. She turned and continued back, pacing a line between the furniture. Watson sat still and silent. Emily came to stand behind her chair, hands resting along the curved back like a politician preparing for a speech.

She sighed once, softly, and looked once more at Watson. "This house does not hold many happy memories for him, Doctor. His childhood was, as you can imagine, less than happy. But to admit such a thing would be another weakness compounded on the head of a man that many already see as weak. If he leaves, I think Peter must have a reason."

"I should think that his past is reason enough," Watson countered quietly.

Emily shook her head and offered Watson a crooked smile. "And I would join you in that thought. There is no shame in wanting to leave a place that holds very little happiness. However, I would invite you to say as much to my husband. Perhaps he would listen if the words came from a fellow man." A slight bitterness crept into her tone.

For the majority of her time, Watson simply didn't think about her sex. Incidents as with Holmes notwithstanding, as enough time passed she simply ceased to consider her body in every moment. She could not change what lay between her legs and the curves that lay over her bones.

But looking at Emily, Watson realized what her life could have been and could do nothing but respect the woman who endured. Were things different, she would have stood and offered the comfort of a hand on Emily's shoulder, but. Watson knew damned well how inappropriate that was. Considering.

"What would you do?" Watson asked.

Emily blinked at him, then looked to the ashes in the fireplace. "I would either sell this house and be done with it, or make it into something our own."

"Your husband is a very lucky man," Watson said after a moment of silence, with all sincerity.

Soon after, Emily returned to her room and Watson quickly followed. She fell back into bed and stared at the ceiling for only a few moments before sleep crept over her. If she dreamed, she had no memory of them in the morning.

Holmes very quickly declared his intention to speak to each of the members of the household staff once more. In stolen moment of relative privacy, he told Watson, "I think it is obvious that Cox would rather hang himself up by his heels than have anything to do with his father's old businesses. And I cannot see the Lady Cox resorting to such supernatural means when all that would be required to lever them from this home is her strenuous support of such methods."

Watson nodded. "Which leaves the maid, the butler, and the gardener."

"Precisely."

Following Cox's newly determined lead, the three of them trooped to the parlor and found Annie dusting the small figures that decorated various and sundry shelves. The burned mark on her neck had further faded to no more than slight tint of bright pink peeking over the top of her collar.

"My dear, what do you know of Adam Cox?" Holmes asked bluntly.

Both Annie and Cox winced slightly at the name, then Annie's eyes widened. She tucked her cloth into her apron and settled her hands on her hips. "Oh, well, I don't remember him much," she said speculatively. "I was but eight or so when he died. My mum had my job then. I mostly tore about the outsides and tried to keep from getting underfoot."

"He never paid you attention?" Holmes pressed.

"Nah." Annie shook her head and chuckled, but with little mirth. "Not unless you count yapping at me to be gone from his sight whenever we ran aground of each other. He was a rough man, y'see? Charming when the right people were looking, but not nearly so much when it was us unimportants."

Holmes thanked the young woman graciously and they followed Cox from the room. Peter Cox's face had gone dark as a thundercloud, but Watson believed sympathetically that it was not due to Annie's words; it was because of the hard truth of them. If asked, Watson would have speculated that Adam Cox's hardness had extended to his son as well.

Thompson, as eternal and disapproving at ever, they found in the kitchen, impeccable in his suit. He observed the return of Watson and Holmes with little obvious expression, but Watson detected a curious gleam in his eye.

Holmes posed the same question. "What do you remember of Adam Cox?"

Circumspectly, Thompson looked at his gnarled hands. "My duties were occasionally to Adam Cox, but in the larger part I served his wife, Caroline. I was the last servant her family retained after the loss of their fortunes and when she came here to live with him, I was sent with her."

"Your loyalty was to her? Caroline?" Watson asked.

No emotion betrayed itself on Thompson's face, but he swallowed with some difficulty. "Indeed. I watched over her from the time she was a child. When she came to marry that man, I was honored to be able to continue to do so. Adam Cox was chosen for her because of his wealth. Which was his single redeeming quality. As a number in a balance book, he was without compare. As a husband, he was always neglectful and often cruel."

Thompson met Cox's eyes for a moment and Watson found herself forced to look away from such a naked display of history. She cleared her throat softly, meaning it as a signal to Holmes to offer the two men a reprieve from his searching gaze, but it served to jolt Thompson and Cox back into the present.

"Forgive me," Thompson said. "As to your question. I did know Adam Cox, but he rather understood that I was Caroline's man. And reacted accordingly."

They left Thompson a still figure in the kitchen and emerged from the house in contemplative quiet. The doors to the barn stood flung open and Watson could hear the soft sounds of a rough voice talking to the pair of horses that were housed within.

Reg seemed wholly unsurprised when they emerged into the cool dim dusty enclave. He set an aged pitchfork aside and brushed his hands off on his trousers, surveying them with a critical eye. His face seemed like a hardened rock lined with many veins, unyielding. For the third time, Holmes posed his question. "Did you know Adam Cox well?"

"He hired me," Reg said in a low grumble. "When I was let from my place before this."

"You were grateful?" Holmes prompted.

Reg shrugged. "Sure. Havin' a job is better than not havin' one."

For a moment, Holmes observed the man with ferocious intensity. Then he smiled, bowed graciously and said, "Thank you."

Holmes had always had a tendency toward directness; it was one of the reasons he was so prone to ruffle feathers in his dealings with other people. Regardless, Watson was still somewhat taken aback by the imminent briskness of his tone. Cox as well blinked in a most surprised fashion, then politely thanked Reg and began the walk back toward the house. He tucked his hands in his pockets and kept his face tilted toward the afternoon sky.

Watson followed a step behind and Holmes joined in her stride, satisfaction written plainly on his features. "It would appear that we have stumbled upon our mysterious ghost, dear Watson."

Quite accidentally, Watson risked a glance over her shoulder and watched Reg disappear into the stables. "I would agree, Holmes. How shall we prove it?"

Holmes grinned like a cat at a bowl of stolen cream. "Elementary, my dearest doctor. And as soon as we can steal a moment of privacy, I will reveal all."

Upon reaching the house, Cox graciously begged their pardon, explaining that he unfortunately had duties that needed to be attended to. "Much as I wish to ignore them, I cannot," he explained. Cox invited them to make use of any part of the house their investigation might require. And if they happened to encounter any difficulties whatsoever, Emily Cox could be found ensconced in the upstairs study and would surely be thrilled to offer her aid.

Once the lord of the house had vanished, leaving Watson and Holmes once again in the library, Holmes turned to Watson. His eyes were lit with the fire of logic and deductive reasoning that always overtook his expressions at the moments just before the pieces of a particular case locked into place.

"So," Watson asked, settling in an armchair. "What proof do we have?"

Holmes dropped onto an aged sofa that dipped slightly in the middle and steepled his fingers in contemplation. "If you would be so kind as to allow me some repetition, I believe it would be prudent to lay out all the facts. Several things about this case, Watson, are quite obvious from the start. One, I think we can safely conclude that this is unlikely to the one instance of claimed haunting that proves the supernatural world as real as our own. Two, this estate has undergone quite a significant change since the elder Cox passed away. I the old days, it is quite obvious that ill-gotten wealth flowed though this home and, for better or worse, touched the lives of all those who live and work here."

Watson nodded. "That much is quite obvious, I do agree."

"Indeed." Holmes paused for increased dramatic effect. "Now, much of the former staff has long since be released and scattered and, thus, of are no consequence to this case. The leaves only five persons with easy and consistent access to the home. First is Peter Cox himself. I believe it's safe to say that he is unlikely to have manufactured his own ghost. It serves no purpose. Second, of course, is Emily Cox. We can eliminate her as well, for similar reasons. And she seems too practical."

Watson grinned behind her hands at Holmes's uncommonly praiseful estimation of a woman.

"This leaves the staff," Holmes continued. "The maid, Annie. The butler, Thompson, The gardener, Reg."

"One might argue that each is equally as likely," Watson commented.

"Ah." Holmes stood suddenly and charged to the tall windows. His arms found their usual position clasped behind his back as he stood, looking at the green carpet of the lawn and the darker smear of the trees beyond that. "But they do not observe, Watson. Annie can be safely eliminated on the basis of her youth. She would have been little more than a child when the elder Cox died and, thus, the only master she had ever known is the younger Cox. What does she stand to gain from running the couple out of their home, aside from a trip to wherever else they might reside?"

"Thus eliminating Annie. But what about the butler and the gardener?" Watson pressed. "They are both men of advancing years and, unless I am mistaken, both have worked for the family for many years. How on earth does one decide the gardener over the butler?"

"Quite simply," Holmes replied, turning to face Watson. "Thompson's original employer was Adam Cox's wife's father. When he died, the man was inherited, as it were, by his daughter. Thompson has come to work for Peter Cox through his mother and owes his loyalty to that family. Reg, on the other hand, was hired by Adam Cox and worked solely for him until his death."

"Surely that's not basis enough to condemn him?" Watson asked in mock outrage.

"No, indeed it is not. But consider." Holmes sat on the arm of Watson's chair and laid an uncommonly insinuating arm over Watson's shoulder. "Both the maid and butler hold quarters within the house itself, albeit in rooms removed from the main thrust. In order for them to cause the mysterious scratchings and banging, they would have needed to make their way outside without alerting anyone. The gardener, however, lives in a room attached to the stables.'

"Furthermore, both have experienced these mysterious happenings. Annie more obviously, of course, for her mishap with the hot food, but even Thompson confessed to having heard noises. Reg, however, claimed to have heard nothing for his lack of time at the main house. More likely, I believe, is simply that he is the one guilty of having made the noises in the first place!" Holmes declared with great passion.

Experience had taught Watson quite firmly that there was rarely a reason to doubt Holmes's conclusions, however outlandish they might seem at the outset. However, there was occasionally call for the judicious application of doubt in order to make him clarify his conclusions. The police had never quite adopted the habit of acting on Holme's hunches in favor of hard evidence.

"But what proof do you have?" Watson asked skeptically. "It all makes perfect sense, but how can you prove such a thing? And furthermore, Holmes, how did the gardener conspire to push Cox down the stairs and cause Annie to trip? Surely they would have noticed another human?"

Holmes stood and walked to the fireplace. For a moment, he looked at the cheerfully flickering red and yellow flame in the grate. "Patience, Watson. I have a plan and, if all goes accordingly, I have little doubt we will be leaving this place tomorrow, having proved my theory."

True to form, Watson could coax no further information from Holmes, merely the promise that Watson stay awake after they retired for the night. Apparently their plan involved some amount of nocturnal subterfuge. As was, to be quite honest, fairly par for the course. In the meantime, Holmes excused himself to do whatever it was he did that made mysteries obediently unfurl before him.

Left alone, Watson meandered her way through the house, eventually making her way up the gracefully curving staircase to the second floor. One of the doors was open several inches and from which Watson could hear the soft sounds of a pen scratching and the quiet shuffle of papers. She deduced that was the study in which she could find Emily Cox.

Watson knocked softly on the door before she entered, asking, "Am I interrupting?" by way of an apology.

Emily Cox sat behind a massive desk that looked as though half the local forest must have been cut down in its construction. The carving was ornate, if slightly faded from the sheer number of times it had been dusted and polished. A dizzying number of papers lay scattered across the surface, many covered in long lists of numbers and sums, with patterns of inkblots decorating the blank spaces.

She looked up and offered a small smile. "You are, but it's welcome. Good afternoon, Doctor."

"I have good news," Watson said, sitting in a chair across from Emily. "Well, hopeful, at any rate."

Emily gathered a great sheaf of papers into a neat stack and pushed them aside. "Thank God." She leaned back in her chair and distractedly brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. "Do share?"

"Holmes thinks he knows who is masquerading as a ghost. He assures me that by tomorrow morning, we will be able to lay all the pieces out. Though, before I forget, I must warn you that we may well be sneaking about the grounds tonight, so."

"I do hope you enjoy yourselves," Emily laughed softly. It brought some animation into her face, spots of light color on her cheeks and sparkle into her worried eyes. "To be honest, Doctor, I merely wish for things to settle as the will now. If it's a damned ghost, I 'd rather know for certain and take action against it."

Watson nodded in sympathy. "It must be very frustrating."

"Oh, well." Emily touched the tips of her fingers to her lips and smiled. "It is. There is too much of the past allowed to linger in this house where it is not wanted. If it is a ghost -- and I must admit, I have little belief in such things—then perhaps it is a sign we are meant to leave. And if it isn't, then it can be dealt with accordingly and maybe Peter and I can begin to lift away some of those cobwebs."

"I'm glad we can be of some help," Watson replied.

Emily studied her for a moment, then broke into a more genuine smile. "As am I, Doctor. Your presence has been much more amenable than I had expected."

"You are very gracious."

"Hardly," Emily laughed. "When my husband told me he had engaged the very famous Sherlock Holmes to hunt down the ghost of his father, I thought he'd lost his mind. Your cases are perhaps more famous than you realize, Doctor. I had visions of a haughty policeman throwing the entire house into chaos."

Watson considered the usual course of their cases. "Well, this is perhaps slightly calmer than cases usually are."

Holmes reappeared from wherever his investigation had taken him in just enough time for dinner. He strode imperiously into the dining room, looking as impeccable as if he'd spent the afternoon enjoying leisurely hours perusing the works of the library. He brushed invisible dust from his coat and took a seat across from Cox. His smile suggested to Watson, if not to their current employers, that he had found precisely what he was looking for.

"How goes your investigation, gentlemen?" Cox asked, through a broad smile that did not well disguise the nervousness behind his eyes.

"Very well," Holmes said, setting his napkin down. He glanced at Watson for a single moment, then looked away so quickly she had no chance to interpret any meaning. "In fact, I believe we are closing in on your answer."

"Oh?"

"I would prefer to refrain from disclosing too many details until I am certain," Holmes said. Had the words come from Watson, she would have made them gracious. Because Holmes was Holmes and had never been gracious to another human in his life without being compelled by unusually deep feeling, he merely seemed to suggest that challenging his wisdom would be the worst of all possible ideas. "Though, I can say I do not believe your troubles to be supernatural."

Cox started slightly in his chair. Emily reached out and laid her hand over his, squeezing his fingers in what might have been comfort or a warning. Heedfully, Cox transformed his reaction into a cough, taking a deep drink from his glass. Holmes sat in his chair unperturbed.

"Forgive me," Cox said, keeping hold of Emily's hand. "And forgive me again for being a fool to ask, but are you quite certain?"

Circumspectly, Holmes clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly. "I am. In my experience, men have gone to very clever lengths to hide their actions behind supernatural explanations. They can be extraordinarily dexterous in their deceptions."

"Well, I suppose we shall be very grateful for that," Cox said quietly.

The rest of dinner passed in a silence that Watson imagined she could hold in her hands. Holmes and Watson retired to their rooms with Holmes reiterating his promise that all would be explained in the morning, assuming everything went according to plan. It was Emily, to no surprise of Watson's, who expressed their thanks and steered her husband up the stairs.

In Watson's rooms, Holmes closed the door, saying, "I do believe our host would rather he have a ghost."

"Can you truly blame him?" Watson asked, removing her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. "It would be difficult for me to discover that Mrs. Hudson secretly harbored ill-will toward me."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "One becomes used to it."

Watson muffled her chuckle behind a cough and Holmes favored her with a restrained smile. The clock on the mantle showed it was a quarter to ten, which left them with just over two hours to while away before they left to do whatever it was Holmes had planned. Watson had every intention of spending those hours at work writing down the rough outline of the Cox case. It, admittedly, had not been one of their particularly exciting cases, but she might be able to make some little tale of it.

She sat at the small desk and opened a notebook, fully expecting Holmes to retire into his own rooms to undertake his preparations. Instead, he lingered, taking a seat in the chair beside the fireplace. Watson felt, irrationally, that Holmes's gaze was a physical weight against her.

"Yes?" she said eventually, setting down her pen having written nothing more than the date and _The Case of the Cox Ghost_ at the top.

"How is your stomach?" Holmes asked suddenly.

Watson stared. "It's fine, Holmes. I would not lie to you."

Holmes made a noise that Watson, once again, could not give meaning to and seemed to sink into his own thoughts. Shaking her head, Watson returned to her notebook and began to write down the background of the case. She would need to ask either Holmes or perhaps Emily Cox for more details concerning the former patriarch of the Cox family.

She had just begun to lose herself in the construction of the case, when Holmes spoke in a suspiciously mild tone. "Watson, perhaps I should undertake this on my own."

For several seconds, Watson continued writing. When she realized what her friend had suggested, her hand stuttered to a stop, leaving behind a trail of pooling inkblots on the paper. Slowly, she sat her pen down and turned in the chair, leveling her most piercing gaze at Holmes. "And why, may I ask, would you do such a thing?"

Holmes didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "You are recently wounded."

"I have aided you far worse wounded before."

"Yes, however." Holmes flicked his gaze away. It spoke to the strength of their friendship that such a gesture was all Watson needed to understand. That it was all her deepest fears confirmed overrode any comfort she might have derived.

"So," Watson said, raising her chin. "It does indeed matter after all."

In a distant way, she realized that the emotion in her chest was not the shame she would have expected, nor anything approaching the desire to weep and wail and beg for Holmes' esteem back. It was a fiery indignation that he would allow something as trivial as her sex to so change his estimation of her.

Holmes rose then, smoothing his jacket first and then his hair. "I have no desire to lead you into harm."

"Come off it, Holmes," Watson snapped. "You have led me into the worst parts of London without a second thought more times that I care to count. And, as I would remind you, nothing has changed with me between then and now."

"Watson." Holmes shook his head. "You have always been an admirable companion to me. I could not have asked for better."

"And yet that is what you ask," Watson returned, turning back to her writing. "It's you that changes me in this moment, Holmes, not I."

Holmes locked his arms behind his back and surveyed her with searching eyes. Many times in their acquaintance, Watson has been subjected to such thorough scrutiny. But never before had she felt as though Holmes were searching for parts of her that were well hidden. It was not comfortable.

"I might ask why you thought you could not share in your truth with me."

Watson snorted out a laugh. "Because society thinks so highly of women that we might do as we please. Forgive my foolishness, I shall immediately parade down Baker Street."

Unexpectedly, that drew a low chuckle from Holmes. Watson looked over her shoulder and watched as he slid his fingers through his hair. He looked, in that moment, quite unlike Watson had ever seen him previously. And until that moment, she would have fancied that she had seen Holmes in the throes of every mood that he possessed.

Holmes walked to the desk and lightly laid his hand on the polished surface. "I do apologize, old boy. I would be most deeply honored if you would assist me."

Watson inhaled and exhaled deeply. She looked at Holmes. The simple truth was that she had trusted the man with her life too many times to not believe him now. Which could mean only that, in the future, she would find herself correcting him many times. But, at least, it would be a nice change from their usual methods.

"It would be my pleasure," she said simply.

Just over an hour wore away before Watson sat her pen down again and looked up the clock. It was half past eleven. She slowly uncurled her fingers to ease away the cramps and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Holmes had returned to his own chair and his own meditations. There were very few moments that Watson truly wished Holmes were a more forthcoming man.

"Holmes?"

"Yes?" He looked at her with slight hesitancy.

"Am I yet allowed to know of your plan?"

"Oh." Holmes shook his head dismissively. "We're going to conceal ourselves and see if our good gardener goes on a midnight wandering tonight, which I fully expect he will."

Watson stared, fully expecting there to be a second clause to his plan that involved some manner of secrecy or subterfuge. But Holmes sank back into silence, staring pensively into the fire. "That's all?"

"Yes."

"Very well." Watson closed her notebook and stood. "Shall we, then?"

By midnight, they had concealed themselves in the shadows of the stables themselves, standing beneath a waxing moon and a bright spattering of stars. Watson pushed her hands into her pockets and crouched beneath the stone wall, a step behind Holmes. He was, as usual, suddenly thrumming with the excitement and energy he only found during the critical moments in their cases.

"Holmes, what if he chooses to sleep?" Watson asked, only a touch cynically.

"Have faith, Watson," Holmes rejoined in a low voice, favoring her with a small smile over his shoulder.

True to his predictions, before much longer the stable door creaked open and the weathered Reg emerged from the warm glow within, rake resting on his shoulder. He closed the door carefully behind him and set off across the lawn. They watched as he snuck around the back of the house, toward where Watson assumed the windows of the Cox's bedroom was located.

Watson straightened as soon as he had vanished. "What on earth."

Holmes chuckled softly. "It's quite simpler to cause ghostly scratchings than mystics would have one believe. I expect in the morning, we'll find that Cox was woken in the night by ghostly scratchings. Also. If you'll follow me."

Holmes led the way to a small garden patch behind the stables. In the gloom, Watson could very faintly make out the round, bulging shapes of growing vegetables. "My god, Holmes, it's diabolical. How on earth could we have missed something so depraved."

"Your wit is misplaced, Watson," Holmes said coolly. "I am not yet that much of a fool. If you were more observant, you would notice that it is not merely a vegetable garden, there are also an impressive variety of herbs growing _amongst_ the vegetables."

Watson folded her arms over her chest. "Spice is not a crime, Holmes."

"One of those herbs is Syrian rue," Holmes said, pointing. "Among other things, in small amounts they cause dizziness and hallucinations, such as might be enough to trip an otherwise dexterous maid while she carries food to a table or cause a man to misstep on the stairs and take a fall. Thus leading both of them to believe that something was affecting their wits."

Understanding blossomed in Watson and she turned to Holmes. "My God."

Holmes smiled again, both smug and calmly proud. "Come, Watson. All this case requires is morning."

That night, Watson lay in bed with her fingers gently probing the wound on her stomach. She pressed against the stitches and felt the rising ache in the muscles of her abdomen. She had much occasion in her years to contemplate her own mortality, but she'd never been made to feel delicate before. She wondered whether Holmes would honestly be able to look at her as she was, without reservation.

She hoped and it was on that thought she drifted to sleep.

In the morning, all Watson was required to do was stand beside Holmes while he laid out the fact for the Cox's. She observed the expressions passing across both their faces. Cox was shocked, she very, very easily discerned, and horrified. He angrily told Annie to summon the gardener and she jumped to, face drawn into a worried, unhappy mask. For her part, Emily seemed much more sadly resigned. Watson suspected that Emily had harbored some notion of the truth long before this moment.

To his credit, when faced with his employers and the famous Sherlock Holmes, Reg attempted no obfuscation as to his honesty. He merely schooled his expression into an even stonier mask and folded his arms resolutely over his chest.

"But why?" Cox asked unhappily.

Reg explained in short, grunting sentences that when Adam Cox was master of the manor, he was paid an extra wage for his help in hiding illegal goods on the property. Even after the elder Cox's ostensible retirement, he still allowed his enterprise to be run through his property and Reg had continued to collect the money. When Adam died and his son made it exceptionally clear that he had no intention of allowing the continuance of such things, Reg had lost the money.

Recently, he'd been contacted by some old associates of the Cox family who were interested in resuming their old activities. Reg, who held little love for the moral compunctions of his new employer, was quite amenable. The only thing that prevented such a resurrection was the continued presence of Peter Cox.

"You never liked this house," Reg said flatly. "I figured you'd be glad to get gone."

It was a simple enough business to take advantage of the creaks and moans normal to all houses of a certain age and exacerbate them. With his lodgings being away from the main house, Reg had an added element of freedom that allowed him to cause his own thumps, scratches, creaks, groans, and moans. He cultivated several herbs in his garden that could easily be slipped into food to cause the queer feelings Cox and Annie had described.

"She's a good girl. Never thought nothin' of an old uncle being in her kitchen." He frowned slightly. "I never did mean for her to get hurt."

Holmes and Watson withdrew to allow Cox a private moment to deal with the man as he saw fit. A moment later, Emily Cox emerged, covered in a veil of calmness. "Thank you for your help, Mister Holmes. My husband is upset, but we appreciate at least having the truth uncovered."

"Of course." Holmes kissed her hand and she smiled.

"And thank you for your help as well, Doctor," Emily turned to Watson with quiet understanding in her eyes. "You are very good man and I am pleased to have met you."

"As am I," Watson replied, kissing her hand as well.

Cox emerged then, face drawn into a tight mask of anger and sadness. Watson thought he was rather lucky that a woman like Emily Cox would be there for him. "I. Forgive me, gentlemen, I had not wanted to believe that this was true. But I am very grateful for your help."

They exchanged their goodbyes, then, and Cox himself drove them to the train station. On the platform, he shook both their hands and offered one more measure of gratitude. Watson was nearly tempted to assure him that their case had been much simpler than either she or Holmes anticipated. She refrained, though. Watson sensed Cox would not be eased to learn that his very difficult day was easy for them.

The train left on time and Watson found herself sitting in the same place she had just a few days before, across from Holmes while the countryside slipped by outside the window.

"I believe for our next case, it would be prudent to find something somewhat more stimulating," Holmes said.

Watson did not fail to note the _we_ and she smiled as she said, "Oh, I agree."

**Author's Note:**

> Dwg was kind enough to make some truly excellent accompanying artwork.
> 
> [One](http://pics.livejournal.com/dwg/pic/001a7f7q) // [Two](http://pics.livejournal.com/dwg/pic/001a827d) // [Three](http://pics.livejournal.com/dwg/pic/001ab5wb) // [Four](http://pics.livejournal.com/dwg/pic/001aadtq)


End file.
